


igni draco

by Sijglind



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Dragons, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not your typical Slave Fic, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:12:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Empire of Taress and its kingdoms are torn by a war between the Emperor and the rebels fighting under the banner of the Order of the Phoenix on the other side.<br/>Draco Malfoy, crown prince of Elysia, grew up sheltered in Malfoy Castle, far away from war and bloodshed. Until the rebels come to his lands and end his father's Emperor-loyal rule, and the prince finds himself having to decide how much he's willing to sacrifice for his family's safety.</p><p>  <em>By sunrise, he had been Draco Malfoy, a free man, prince and heir to a great house.</em><br/><em>By sunset, he was only Draco, bound, a bargaining chip and war trophy.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ūnus

**Author's Note:**

> Even though the first chapter might give the impression, this is not your typical Slave fic. There is no Rape/Non-con/Dub-con planned for this story, and Draco does not spend his days in shackles or collars.  
> To be honest, this is once again one of those fics that totally ran off with me. I originally planned to write a Daenerys/Drogo situation here, but I'm not sure if I really managed. Let's just say I took it as inspiration and everything else I leave for you to decide.  
> That said, I speak neither Latin nor French, so I'm already going to apologize for the mistakes I'll no doubt make. When you find some, please let me know so I can correct them―same goes for any spelling/grammatical errors when it comes to English since I'm not a native speaker. I chose to take French as Elysia's and German as Teuto's languages, translations will be at the beginning of each chapter, but I won't use more than a couple words or sentences to give this fic a bit of 'local colour', as my old English teacher called it.  
> Now, enough of my rambling, have fun reading and feel free to leave me kudos and comments if you enjoyed it so far.  
> Ta.

 

* * *

 “I do not care what comes after; I have seen the dragons on the wind of morning.”  
― Ursula K. Le Guin, _The Farthest Shore  
_

* * *

Smoke curled above the small bowl with incense, filling the small and dimly lit room with its heady aroma. A woman sat on an armchair next to the table the bowl rested upon, her large eyes open and distant as she seemed to stare at nothing in particular, her lips slightly parted. She did not react in any way when the door behind her opened, and a tall man entered, blinking as his eyes got used to the weak light pouring in through the gaps between the heavy drapes in front of the windows.

         “Sybill?” the man asked and pulled the door closed behind him with a click that rung loud in the silence of the small room. The woman still did not react. Frowning as if in concern, the man walked towards the armchair where he could see her bushy curls peek over the headrest, hoping she had merely fallen asleep, yet dreading a much more gruesome fate had befallen the Seeress.

         “Sybill,” the man repeated, louder this time, and reached out a hand to clasp the woman's bony shoulder. As soon as his fingertips grazed over the thick cloth of her shawls, the woman seemed to snap to attention, her back straightening out and her head turning towards the man quickly. Her glazed eyes did not seek out the man's gaze, but she drew a deep breath that rattled all the way down into her lungs.

         When the woman spoke, her voice was hoarse and breathless, strained, as if every single syllable was dragged from deep inside her; “The White Dragon has approached these lands, and he will be born amidst snow and ice. He is the key to victory in the war between the Emperor and the one who has the power to vanquish him. Whichever side the White Dragon chooses will be victorious, for the other will burn in his fire. The White Dragon has approached these lands, and his power is as raw and merciless as winter.”

         Surprised, the man stared on as the woman blinked once, twice, and then cleared her throat audibly, smacking her lips.

         “Albus?” she asked then, equally surprised to see another standing in her quarters. Her forehead wrinkled as she looked up at him, seemingly deciding how she could have not noticed the man entering her room. “I must have fallen asleep,” she decided finally and reached out for the cup of tea standing on the table in front of her.

         “Yes, you must have,” the man agreed while he combed long fingers through his white beard, the odd twinkle in his piercing blue eyes only barely hidden by his bushy eyebrows.

         “I will leave you to it then, my dear,” he said and strode towards the door, fingers still carding through the coarse hair of his long beard while in his mind thoughts and ideas toppled over one another, each fighting to reach the forefront.

 

_The age of Cassiopeia dawns with change; in its first year, the Emperor, who ruled over all kingdoms of Taress with an iron fist is defeated—by a babe. At the height of the war between his forces and the opposing armies which ride beneath the banner of the Order of the Phoenix, Emperor Voldemort was made aware of a Prophecy that told of the one with the power to vanquish him, born as the seventh month dies. To crush the spark before it can catch fire and consume him, the Emperor sets out in search for the boy that is destined to be his murderer, and finds the child._

_However, when he uses his magic to kill the boy, the spell rebounds and hits its caster himself, weakening him so that he has to flee and hide. Taress breathes a relieved sigh and the Order cheers and celebrates their new hero, The Boy Who Lived, Harry James Potter. Finally, peace ceases to be a faraway goal and becomes a possibility, then something given._

_The Emperor's followers are caught and tried. Some claim bewitchment; they were merely puppets bound against their will by strings of dark magic, they say. Others still scream about their loyalty to the 'true' ruler of Taress as they are dragged from the court room._

_Teuto, the headquarters of the revolution, leads by example and votes a new ruler. Many ask for Albus Dumbledore to take the seat, but the old man declines any political position. He rather pulls the strings from the shadows. Cornelius Fudge climbs the throne instead, and he is suited for this Era of Peace. The Emperor is believed to be dead, killed by his own curse, and the people move on._

_Harry Potter is oblivious to these developments and his role in it, and leads a quiet, peaceful life far away from those who speak his name with awe. Until, that is, the Emperor returns._

_Ten years after that fateful Hallowe'en night, the Emperor makes the next attempt on the boy's life, but fails. Time and again, he is defeated by the child for he is weakened, and it is not until the child's fourteenth summer that he finally returns to his full strength. A young man loses his life that night, but yet again the Boy Who Lived escaped barely harmed._

_The people of Taress, minds numbed by peace and denial, do not believe their hero until it is too late. When the Emperor emerges from the shadows and calls forth his forces, all eyes turn towards the Boy Who Lived, the Hero, the Vanquisher, and Harry Potter sets out with his own armies, the banner with its phoenix billowing above._

# I

They came with dragons.

         The irony was not lost on the people of Elysia, for it was the beasts the prince was named after, that ultimately brought the royal family's downfall. Draco, the boy was called, and Dragon it meant.

         Here in the north, in the bosom of winter, not many had seen a dragon before, and the Teutos brought three. Elysia's armies fled screaming as soon as the shadows of the giant, scaled forms passed over them, and many burned in the hot fire they breathed down onto the men from nostrils and fanged maws. King Lucius sat on his throne and listened to the messengers bringing tidings from the field of battle, and all of them spoke of loss and death with cracking voices. Narcissa, his fair queen, spoke of leaving the castle and go into hiding, pleaded for exile to save their son.

         “Seventeen winters is not old enough to face one's death, my King. Please, I beg you, do not let him die,” she said, eyes gleaming with tears and voice choked, losing her regal calmness with the looming threat of her only son dying at the hands of a barbarian. They were coming, drawing closer to Elysia's capital, Havan, with every day that passed.

         “A Malfoy does not flee,” the King insisted time and again, face of a sickly pallor and knuckles white where his hands clutched the armrests of his throne, until the Teutos broke down the city's gates and poured through them, the three dragons circling overhead with their riders.

         Draco stood at his window and listened and watched as the few truly loyal guards charged to their deaths, the others throwing down their weapons and sinking into the mud of the streets, heads bowed with the weight of surrender.

         “Come away from the window, Draco,” Mother said and he felt her trembling fingers close around his wrist, tugging with soft determination until he stepped away and sunk onto the bed with her, his blonde head cradled in her lap. Her delicate hands combed through his hair soothingly, but Draco found no comfort in it, not when he could hear her silent sobs, far louder to his ears than the screams of pain coming through the window.

         “My little Dragon,” the queen whispered, and he wondered how she could still speak the endearment with such fondness when she'd seen with her own eyes what a dragon could do, how the men that were supposed to protect them now cowered in fear in front of the great beasts. Draco's fingers twisted the fine cloth of her robes and he buried his face deep in the folds of her cashmere skirt, wishing they were thick enough to steal his breath away completely. He was so ashamed, so furious. So scared. Father had spoken of the worth of his family, of their mighty armies, of the Emperor and the power he held, but now, when it mattered the most, Draco could see none of it. The only thing seeming to loom on the horizon of his destiny was fire, hot and red and hungry, eating away at the banners with the entwined twin serpents that was his family's crest.

         “Where is the Emperor, why does he not send us help?” He barely recognized his own voice, it sounded so strained and weak, feeble and broken as the words fell from his lips in a desperate whisper. Mother shushed him, one hand cradling the back of his head as she uttered hollow promises that sounded like lies.

         Outside the door, he could hear heavy footsteps and shouts, shuffling and the clash of blades, more cries of pain, and Draco knew they'd come for them. They'd be dragged out of the room, through the stone corridors and into the courtyard where their people would witness their fall, would see the glint of the blades before they came down to sever heads from necks and blood soaked the already wet earth.

         He did not cry as the men with the fiery phoenix on their chests seized him by the arms and dragged him away from the bed, binding his hands behind his back. _A Malfoy does not cry_ , the voice of his father echoed in his head. _Neither does he give up. There is no weakness in a Malfoy_. It might be the last thing he would do, but Draco would not show the fear he felt inside, would not back away or plead for his life.

         Mother walked behind him, and her steps were as sure as his own. He knew she would hold her chin high and look ahead, her beautiful face a composed marble mask. They called her the Queen of Ice and Snow not only for her position or her pale complexion and white-blonde hair, Draco knew, for she only showed her true feelings to Father and himself—and only seldom at that. People thought her to be as cold and merciless as the Elysian winters. They had never seen the love she held for her family. They had not seen her beg for her son's life at the feet of her husband.

         And now she would die in front of her people and they would never truly have known her.

         Draco's breath caught in his throat only when they stepped out of the grand doors of the castle and into the courtyard, and he stumbled slightly, knees nearly giving out beneath him, but caught himself in time to keep appearances.

         The square was filled with the unknown faces of his enemies, blood-soaked armour glinting red in the afternoon sunlight as they served as barrier between his family and the defeated soldiers. Behind them, he saw the rows of his people, looking solemn as Narcissa and Draco were brought to the middle of the square. Father was already there, on his knees, his long, blond hair crusted with blood from a wound at his temple that was still oozing the ruby liquid sluggishly. The mud clung to his fine clothes and his guards were leering, taunting him in the guttural tongue of Teuto.

         And above them all circled the three dragons, their wing beats loud as they huffed and released small plumes of fire. Draco could not resist tilting his head back to look at the scaled bellies of his namesakes, their long, deadly claws and fangs, and the leathery skin stretched between the bones of their great wings. They were as beautiful as they were deadly, and Draco longed to be like them; so strong and powerful, awe-inspiring, savage, and most importantly, free despite their riders. With a few beats of their wings they could rise up towards the clouds and fly to lands he had never seen. No one could stop them, and those who tried burned in their fires or were crushed between their jaws.

         If only he were a dragon, and not merely by name, they would not be here, kneeling in front of the barbaric Teutos, their agonizing and humiliating defeat on display in front of the people they were meant to rule.

         If only.

         With a hard shove, he was brought to his knees beside his father, his mother following quickly to kneel at Draco's right. Her eyes were cool as she regarded the foreign soldiers soiling their kingdom with their existence, and Draco wished he was as strong as her. The knot of love and admiration for his beautiful mother wound tight in his stomach as he looked up himself, imitating her dignity and pride.

         At his left, Father's head was bowed, his shoulders slumped, the many lessons about pride and regal behaviour he'd taught his son apparently not applying to him. Draco was disgusted.

         The first dragon deserted the circle of the three high above and descended, and for a moment, Draco feared they might be swallowed by it. He heard a frightened whimper and didn't realize it was his own until Narcissa turned her head towards him and the cool mask slipped from her features for barely a heartbeat's time, letting him have a glimpse of the sadness and fear she was hiding beneath.

         But apparently, they were not meant to become the dragon's meal. Not yet, at least. The dragon landed, the crowd around it taking a cautious step back to make room for the great beast, and a man slipped from its back to the ground before his mount rose again to join its companions. The man's hair was as red as fire, and his face was covered in dark freckles. His limbs were long, making him tower over most of the men around him, and Draco knew immediately who he was—Ronald Weasley, the War Chief's right-hand man.

         Weasley took a disgusted look at the three kneeling before him and then walked towards them as the next dragon descended to let its rider to the ground. This time a woman sat on the beast's back, her curly hair wild and bushy, although that might be from the wind. Unlike Weasley, who wore a hauberk and leather trousers, she was clad in a long robe of thick, burgundy cloth, the hem brown with dried mud. She as well walked towards them as her dragon, a lithe green beast, beat its wings and returned to the sky. Calm brown eyes settled on Draco and his parents as the woman came nearer, her motions more fluid than the ones of her gangly friend. It was, of course, Hermione Granger, sorceress and scholar, with a sharp wit praised in all realms, and Draco couldn't help the surge of hatred for her he felt as she came to stood before him. A woman was not meant to be at the front lines, should not study with the men, his mother had taught him so. A woman, she'd said, is the puppet master, and she moves the strings that tie her husband with words and careful suggestions. She rules from the shadows, but even though she wields great power, her husband always has the final word.

         So Draco raised his chin defiantly, glaring daggers at her as she looked down her nose at him and his family. He would not feel intimidated by a bint, legends or not. To his distress, Granger only reacted with a challengingly raised eyebrow.

         However, he could not dwell long on it, because now the last of the dragons was landing, and the sight stole Draco's breath straight from his lungs. The beast looked ferocious; it was dark and huge, its weight balanced on its hind legs and wings, for it had no forelegs. The black scales looked brown in the sunlight, and as thick as if they'd been carved from stone. A crown of bronze horns protruded from its skull and the end of its tail, the maw was sharp and formed like a beak. The sight alone made Draco shudder involuntarily and crouch down slightly.

         Where the other dragons had almost seemed calm and docile, this one was wild. It shuffled and threw its head back, roaring with a yowling, screeching sound that grated over Draco's nerves and made his teeth set. Its rider, a dark form against the sunlight and too far away to make out any details, reached out to pat the beast's neck in what appeared to be reassurance—a futile gesture, judging by the thickness of the dragon's scales. Nonetheless, it seemed to be calmed by it slightly, and when the rider had climbed off its back, the beast rose again with a last roar, just barely avoiding the heads of the onlookers with its horned tail, drawing frightened gasps and screams from the spectators.

         Draco, however, paid it no heed, as he was too distracted by the sight of the third rider walking towards him with sure steps that did not lack a certain grace despite their quickness. He knew who the third rider was, and with him, the Golden Three were complete: Harry Potter, War Chief of the Order of the Phoenix, successor of the great Albus Dumbledore, and the Emperor's nemesis.

         He'd heard rumours of the man, telling of his power and strength, of all the ways he'd defeated the Emperor before, as a babe even, but never had Draco thought he'd one day see him with his own eyes. Or have to take his last breath at his feet.

         Potter was not tall, per se, but not small either, more of average height. His hair was as wild as his dragon, thick, unruly strands of the colour of a raven's plumage sticking out every which way to reveal the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Tanned bronze skin, kissed by the south's sun, stretched taut over the wiry muscles of his forearms, the healthy colour only sometimes interrupted by fine silvery scars telling of healed battle wounds. He was not stocky or burly with muscles, but still his rust coloured leather jerkin clung to his frame—that and the hidden grace of Potter's movements made Draco think of a mountain lion's subtle strength and quickness.

         Draco could merely stare as Potter's bespectacled eyes, the colour of Elysia's fields in summer, came to rest on him for a moment. Had he not been looking right back at him, Draco might have missed the slight widening of the green eyes and the dilation of pupils before Potter turned away and focused on Father. When Draco made to follow the war chief's gaze, he saw his father glance from Potter towards him and back, the beginnings of a smirk making the corners of his mouth twitch before he schooled his features back into a pitiful expression of remorse and misery. The king seemed to have a plan, but somehow, this insight did not reassure Draco as much as it once would have, so he furrowed his brows, beckoning his father to spill the secret, but Lucius did not turn to his son.

         Potter began to speak. He turned in a slow circle, directing the words at the crowd gathered around them and at last at the royal family, his eyes gaining on hardness as they settled on the king. When he'd finished, Granger cleared her throat, translating the guttural tongue into the lilt of Elysia with barely a noticeable accent. Draco would have been impressed if he would not hate her so much and had more pressing matters to attend to. He was only half listening as she spoke of the honour found in surrender, of knowing when a battle was in vain and when it was the time to lay down weapons to avoid needless bloodshed. She promised the people—Elysia's people, _Draco's_ people—they would not be harmed and could go about their life as they had before, however, any attempt to help the Emperor and his forces would be punished gravely.

         Finally, Granger turned towards Draco and his parents, eyes cold despite their warm, brown colour and she said, “Malfoys, for your vile deeds under the rule of the Emperor, you are hereby sentenced to death by beheading. Any last words?”

         Mother shook her head curtly, her gaze as icily as Granger's as she accepted her sentence. Draco could not speak, for he felt like he'd swallowed a stone that was now stuck in his throat, blocking any words from finding their way out and cutting off the air he desperately tried to breathe. His eyes stung and he blinked, trying to get rid of the tears threatening to fall to his disgrace. Why, he wondered, why did he have to die? He'd never seen the Emperor himself, and Mother had sheltered him fiercely, hiding her beloved son behind the walls of their castle and even going as far as convincing Father to allow him only to practice magic instead of the handling of a sword. Most of his life Draco had spent in the castle's library, head bent over books as he studied spells and potions instead of learning how to sharpen a blade.

         Sensing his distress, Mother whispered his name, and when he turned to her, she smiled. He was sure she'd meant it to be reassuring but it came out all wrong—too weak and not reaching her eyes, which were filling with tears themselves.

         “Death is better than torture or enslavement,” she whispered. “My son will die with his head held high, not screaming on a rack or scrubbing the floors of a hut.”

         Draco nodded, even though he wondered how he was supposed to hold his head high when it was about to be rolling at Harry Potter's feet. The thought nearly made him laugh out loud, and he felt the laughter starting to bubble in his chest, a hysteric, desperate sound that would speak of insanity instead of amusement, and he fought hard to hold it down.

         Help with his struggle came in form of a sword being drawn, the sound of metal grinding against its sheath too loud in the eerie silence that had fallen over the courtyard. With a last nod, a wordless farewell to his mother, Draco turned to the Golden Three again and saw that they had been joined by another man, this one tall and broad in built, with thick stubble covering his jawline and cheeks, and a mop of chestnut hair nearly as unruly as Potter's. He held a silver sword with rubies decorating the ornate handle, the name _Godric Gryffindor_ engraved into the long, slim blade. That, more than anything else told Draco that it was Neville Longbottom standing in front of him. It seemed all the high and mighty of the Order of the Phoenix had come to witness the end of the Malfoy line.

         An uncanny calmness settled over Draco, enveloping him like a soft blanket. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. Longbottom would raise the sword and bring it down on him in a swift motion, sharpened silver cutting easily through skin, muscle and bone, and everything would be over. It was inevitable.

         He was just deciding if he should keep his eyes defiant and on Potter, showing him that Draco's will was not broken, when Father cried at last, “wait!”

         The four in front of them exchanged surprised and uncertain glances, and even Mother and Draco turned to look at Lucius. Granger narrowed her eyes in distrust as she asked, “what is it?”

         Father looked almost eager as he scrambled up a bit, his torso and thighs forming a straight line while his calves remained folded beneath him. “I have an offer for Harry Potter.”

         Granger's eyebrows shot up in surprise and almost hesitantly, she translated what had been said, which was met by a sneer from Weasley and a disbelieving frown from Potter before he responded something else.

         “You have nothing to offer to us,” Granger said in a way that told Draco she truly believed so. He could not take offence at her clipped tone, for he himself thought there were limits to the bribe a man who was kneeling in the mud with his hands bound had to offer. Especially not when one attempted to oil the palm of Harry Potter the Incorruptible, if the rumours and legends held any truth.

         Father had the audacity to smirk when he said, “I do believe that is not quite true. I know you would not believe my claims of remorse if there is no proof beyond my own words. That is why I decided to gift something to you.”

         “We neither need nor want your gold,” Granger cut him off and nodded at Longbottom, who had taken a step back when the negotiations had begun, but now returned to his position beside Mother, sword rising.

         “But I was not talking about gold,” Father insisted, now with a slightly frantic edge to his voice, and moved forwards on his knees only to be held back by a snarling guard.

         “What is it then that you believe is enough to show your— _remorse_.” The last word was spoken with enough sarcasm to show Granger's disbelief and suspicion. That, Draco would have liked to know as well. He was becoming more and more confused the longer Father talked, and there was a spark of hope growing in his stomach, one that had to be stamped out soon. He could already feel the comforting blanket of calmness slipping away, and without its protection, he felt the panic creep back to him, black tendrils of his dire straits wrapping around his insides and crushing his heart in a steely grip.

         Father threw his head back and turned to Potter, his shoulders setting in a proud, straight line as if he'd just remembered the delicate crown still resting on his head and the status it granted him.

         “You must know that I only have one son,” he said and Draco blinked in response, Mother drawing in a harsh breath beside him.

         “No, Lucius!” she cried, outraged, and she must have known what Father was planning and why he was talking about Draco even though the reason escaped him completely. He could not imagine why it would be important to the Teutos that Draco was their only son.

         “Don't you dare!” Mother cried shrilly, but Father ignored her completely after Granger nodded curtly.

         “To show my remorse, and gratitude should you decide not to harm me and my family, I offer Harry Potter my son, _my only heir_ , to do with as he pleases. Surely that should be enough to prove my loyalty to your cause,” he said with an air of triumph.

         Draco made an undignified, gurgling sound. Around him, the forms of soldiers and people blurred into a unrecognisable mass with too many limbs, a monster out of a nightmare as the world began spinning. His heart beat a fast rhythm against his ribcage as if it could break out of his chest and escape when he couldn't, and the air in his lungs started burning. Someone screamed, but he couldn't make out the words or who it was, he only knew it wasn't him because the lump clogging his throat would let neither air nor words through. He feared he might fall face first into the mud as the world started tipping towards him swiftly, but a rough hand closed around his nape and held him upright, fingers digging so hard into his flesh that he was certain there would be bruises later.

         Not that it mattered any longer, did it? His Father had just sold him off to Harry Potter, leader of the revolution against the Emperor, and who knew what would be done to him at Potter's hands, who knew which cruel desires were not spoken of in the legends that people told of him.

         Mother was right, a quick death was favourable over his new plight.

         The thought about his mother grounded Draco enough to become more aware of his surroundings. He looked to his right and saw her struggling against the restraining arms of a soldier of the Phoenix, trying to bite the gloved hand that was pressing down against her mouth to stop her from screaming. His beautiful, proud mother was fighting tooth and nails for her son, and his heart ached as he thought about what would happen to her would Potter decide not to accept the offer. She did not deserve to die here, in the mud, in front of the steps that lead to her home.

         So Draco made a decision.

         “Mother,” he said quietly but nonetheless insistently, and offered her a shaky smile when she stilled. “Please, calm down.”

         Mother's eyes widened, and she shook her head frantically, begging him not to do this for her sake. She did not understand that Draco had to do this, but Draco was a Malfoy, and Malfoys took care of their own. Maybe that was what Father was trying to do; keeping them all alive, giving them a second chance.

         Shouting drew his attention away from his mother and his thoughts, and when he turned back to the Golden Three and Longbottom, he found Potter in an argument with Granger. He was shouting and gesticulating wildly towards the three Malfoys kneeling on the ground, pointing in turn to Mother, then Father, and lastly Draco. Granger had her arms crossed over her chest, her face a pinched expression of disapproval as she shook her head slightly like she meant to show she was disagreeing with Potter's words. Longbottom was standing to the side, grimacing while he looked from Granger to Potter and back, obviously trying to decide if he should intervene or wait for them to sort it out on their own.

         Weasley, on the other hand, seemed to have made his decision, because he put a hand on Potter's shoulder and then talked quietly to him when he had successfully drawn the war chief's attention to himself. The red-headed warrior talked some more, voice low and insistent, yet Potter shook his head frantically, his frown darkening his face considerably before he snapped at his friend and shrugged the large hand resting on his shoulder off. His next words were a harsh snarl to the other three that made Granger recoil and look hurt while Weasley winced and Longbottom raised his hands as if to show he had no opinion on the matter discussed.

         After another moment of silent but no less intimidating staring, Potter finally nodded, then looked away from his friends and straight at Draco, who unconsciously straightened beneath the scrutinising and heavy green gaze, his shoulders squaring and his chin rising slightly as he tried to look down his nose at the dark-haired man. There was an infuriating glint of amusement in Potter's eyes as he stepped forwards and crouched down in front of Draco, reaching out to grip the pointy chin in weapon-calloused fingers. Draco flinched on instinct, trying to dislodge the hand holding his jaw, but it only made Potter's fingers tighten until their tips dug painfully into flesh and bone.

         If Draco's mind would have worked properly, he might have commented on the display of brutish behaviour or maybe asked if Potter was about to snarl like the animal he was, but as it was, his thoughts were abandoning him as Potter peered at him with those unsettling eyes the colour of meadows in spring. He was so close that Draco could smell him; the blood and sweat of battle, the sun-hardened leather of his clothes, the smoky tang that belonged to the dragon, and something spicy that must be Potter himself. The heady aroma filled his nostrils until he felt he could almost taste it on his tongue, the savour of savagery.

         For a moment of temporary insanity, Draco wondered if Potter really tasted like that; of primal instincts and wildness and freedom.

         Thankfully, the thought was fleeting, and he forgot all about it as Potter turned Draco's head from one side to the other, tilting it back and forth as if he was inspecting cattle on the market to see if it was to his liking and worth his gold. He almost expected the brute to push his lips back to see the condition of Draco's teeth. Draco snarled, baring his teeth all on his own.

         Potter only chuckled, a deep, throaty sound, and his green eyes glinted with his amusement. He said something Draco did not understand, but Granger translated into, “what's your name?”

         This time, Draco was able to tear his chin away from the grip Potter held on it, for he was recoiling as if he'd been struck. He nearly ended up sprawled on his side on the ground, but for once he did not care—the anger boiling in the pit of his stomach was too hot, too dark, too all-consuming. A veil of red had draped itself over his eyes, yet Draco could see Potter clearly; his eyes widened and his jaw slack with surprise over Draco's reaction to the question.

         Draco, for once, forgot all about his unfortunate position, and his words tore out of his throat in a cruel hiss.

         “The nerve of you lot!” he said, spittle flying from his lips in his outrage. It was undignified behaviour, but he was in the company of barbarians and therefore couldn't care less. Granger made to speak, her eyebrows furrowed and her face dark, but Draco talked right over whatever she had to say.

         “You were about to cut my head from my shoulders and you did not even know my name?!” His voice gradually changed from a low hiss to shouting with every word. “What kind of justice is this you're practising? What world are you trying to build where a family name is enough to sentence someone to death? And I haven't even mentioned this poor excuse for a trial yet!”

         “Silence!” Granger interrupted him, her face flushed with shame or outrage, Draco could not decide. Nevertheless, he followed her shrill order and snapped his mouth shut, teeth grinding against each other as if he tried pulverising the accusations and insults that longed to escape his lips. It would not do to bargain this chance of survival any further.

         Still crouching in front of Draco, Potter furrowed his brows in a silent question as he looked from Granger back to his prisoner, and Draco noticed with gleeful satisfaction that Granger seemed to be uncomfortable as she translated his words. Potter looked first surprised, then pensive as he considered what had been said, yet he offered no response to Draco's claims of injustice but simply nodded before repeating his former question.

         This time, Draco did not wait for the translation but answered, “Draco Lucius Malfoy, son to Lucius Abraxas Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, crown prince of Elysia.”

         Weasley grinned and said something that made the men within earshot laugh, and even Granger seemed to fight a smile. Draco ignored them even though he was sure it had been a joke at his expense. They could take away his home, his gold and his fine clothes, but never would they strip him off his name and heritage, and he was proud to be a Malfoy, no matter that his name had nearly gotten him executed. After all, he was still alive, and he had his family's cunning wit to thank for that.

         “Draco,” Granger told the others and simply dropped all other names and titles Draco had said. However, after a moment, she hesitantly added something else in Teuto's tongue that made Potter raise his eyebrows and then turn back to Draco to look him over once again, as if he was seeing him in a different light. Weasley gave another comment he could not understand but which made Granger shoot the redhead a disapproving glance. Yet Draco paid the pair no heed, because Potter was hesitantly reaching out towards his face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing Draco's temple as two tanned fingers closed around a strand of silky, blond hair. He rubbed it between his fingers with a thoughtful expression on his face before he said something else and turned towards Granger, who nodded, but then hurried to add what sounded like a warning, which Potter waved off lazily.

         At last, Potter released the wisp of hair and stood up again. He nodded curtly at Father, then turned and strode away without a backwards glance as Draco was seized by his arms and dragged from the courtyard.

         The last thing he saw of his mother was her tear-streaked face as she nodded her farewell.

 


	2. duo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and bookmarks.  
> There is **seemingly attempted** rape in this chapter, but I'll say it again: There will be no rape or non-con in this fic at any point, so keep that in mind when you read on.

# II

Potter and his armies did not stay at the castle to celebrate and defile its ancient halls as Draco had assumed. Instead, they left Havan behind almost immediately, the seemingly endless rows of soldiers trudging along the muddy paths southwards. The autumn air was cold and biting, the first traces of winter already riding the wind as Draco followed a cart at the back of the procession. To each side of him trees reached out towards the grey sky with their almost naked branches, most of the dead leaves already rotting at their roots.

         Elysia's autumn and spring were short, the summer even shorter. Only winter was long and drawn out—harsh and cold and deadly for those unaccustomed to it. Along with the snow storms and icy winds, wolves stalked the fields and forests in search of prey, drawing closer to the villages and towns with each month the ground was covered by seemingly endless whiteness. In the height of winter, they wouldn't only go for the farm's livestocks. Children remained inside, and people travelled only when unavoidable, and never alone or unarmed.

         Had Potter not decided to make his move now, he would not have come far. Winter would have crushed him in its icy hand, dragons or not. Draco would have liked to see it.

         But as it was, Potter had come in autumn, and now Draco was here, his hands bound in front of him, tied to the back of the cart he was following by a long leash like a dog. Or a slave.

         When he looked over his shoulder, he couldn't see the walls of Havan any more, or the towers of his home. There were only endless barren fields stretching out behind him, and when he looked to the left, he saw the sun descending, darkness reaching out first tendrils in the east.

         By sunrise, he had been Draco Malfoy, a free man, prince and heir to a great house.

         By sunset, he was only Draco, bound, a bargaining chip and war trophy.

 

At night, he slept with the women. Most of them were servants, cooks or healers. Those mostly stayed away from him, eyeing Draco with curious eyes and sometimes disgust or suspicion, as though he was not the one who was bound at hands and feet at night, as though he would do unspeakable things to them or run if he could. The truth was, he would not run or squander his position, even given the chance—there was too much at stake. Without him here, his parents were in even more danger, wherever they were now, and he wasn't sure that Potter would not remember that he had originally meant to execute them should Draco flee. He had to protect Mother and Father, even if that meant he had to remain in this despicable position, shunned by most and looked down at by the others while he dragged his hurting and blistered feet as he followed the cart at the back of the armies.

         The only ones that talked to him where _the other women_ , those with the revealing clothes and painted faces. They cooed at him and pinched his cheeks, looked at his fair skin and hair, so much lighter than their own. Draco understood nearly nothing of what they said when they brushed his hair and caressed the fine cloth of his clothes, but by the end of the first fortnight since his plight began, he had learned the Teutos' words for _pretty_ and _white_ and _fuck_.

         The last one made his stomach plummet and his skin feel like someone had upended a bucket of ice water over him. _To do with as he pleases_ , Father had said, and Draco wondered if he had thought about all the possibilities those few words included.

         But Potter hadn't come for him so far, and he only caught glimpses of the unruly mop of hair every once in a while when Draco was escorted through the camp in the evening. By day, the war chief would fly on his dragon above them, leading the way and sometimes scouting from the air for ambushes.

         However, that didn't mean Potter wouldn't find a use for him when they reached Teuto's capital. According to Draco's calculations, there was only a sennight left before they would reach Grimmauld and its castle. Then, Potter would not be needed to lead his armies safely back home any longer. He could only hope and pray to all the gods he knew but never believed in, that he would simply have to clean up after the war chief and nothing else. After all, there were perfectly capable women at hand that could tend to—other needs. Draco had had to witness it often enough when the soldiers came to their tent at night with gold coins in their hands and leers on their faces.

         Yet, the way he was looked at by some of the men and women did not reassure him. He hadn't noticed in the first few days after they had left Havan behind, too occupied with his own dark thoughts as he had been to spend much time looking at others. When he had finally stopped brooding, however, he had begun to see it; the glint of lust in the eyes of a soldier as he was led past him, a leer from a guard when he was given his portion of food, an appraising gaze that began at his face and followed the lines of his torso and down to his hips and legs, leaving unpleasant shivers in its wake.

         The whores of course, leered all the time, but that was a given considering their profession.

         It was through them and their ministrations that he realized he was exotic to them with the paleness of hair and skin and the fine bone structure. Even in Elysia, where people were seldom touched by the sun's rays, he'd always been slightly paler, his hair blonder. And here, between all those tanned faces and dark manes of hair, he stood out like a beacon of white.

         Draco was just glad they were not all drawn to him like moths to light.

 

         Some nights, when sleep was long in coming despite the fatigue of travel, Draco would crawl to the tent flap and peer out beneath it to where the dragons slept. The beasts were kept away from the centre of the camp and shared its outskirts with the whores and women, for despite being tamed, the soldiers still got nervous when they got too close to the dragons.

         So Draco lay on the cold ground and peered towards their dark shadows, only illuminated slightly by the fires the watchmen sat around. For hours he would watch sometimes as the beasts slept, their backs rising and falling with the great breaths they took, their huge wings wrapped around them like a blanket. Even in sleep, Potter's mount was the wildest. The black-scaled dragon snarled and kicked out with its dreams, huffed and sometimes even breathed a small flame from its nostrils.

         He wondered more than once if it was true what people said, and animals showed similarities to their owners.

 

Grimmauld was hot and dirty. The city reeked of the waste of too many people and meat boiling in the heat. The sun sat high on her throne, sending down merciless rays upon them, and the shadows were too small to seek shelter in them. Draco felt his skin burning and perspiring, and his whole body hurt from the long travel.

         The army was greeted by cheers and jubilation when the great wooden portals of the city walls were opened to let the soldiers in, and Draco was thankful that not many seemed to notice him as they walked down the main street towards the castle. Nonetheless, he ducked his head and slumped his shoulders, making himself as small as possible, just to be sure.

         Potter, Weasley and Granger had climbed off their dragons before they had reached the city and sent them off to walk the rest of the way at the head of the procession, and they were greeted with the loudest cheers. People tried to break through the lines of soldiers the Golden Three had at each of their sides to touch and embrace their heroes, but all they got where waves and tired smiles from the three.

         By the time the castle's gates finally fell shut behind Draco, he was close to collapsing. He was thirsty and the world was slightly blurry before his eyes as it seemed to spin around him. Maybe the sun had cooked his brain and that was where his headache had come from. Maybe he should see a healer, and hopefully that was where the guards were dragging him off to as they seized his arms and ducked through the closest door with him.

         The cold stone corridors were a relief, however, the world would not stop spinning and Draco stumbled more than once as they made their way through narrow halls and up crooked stairs. He had the distinct feeling that he should try to remember the way they were taking, yet whenever they rounded another corner, the map he'd tried to construct in his mind fell in on itself and he was left with nothing. In the end, he simply gave up and let his eyes fall shut, only opening them when he was shoved forwards and into a room.

         Pain shot through his still bound hands and up his arms as he caught himself before his face could connect with the stone beneath him. Draco hissed through his teeth and scrambled back to his feet, wincing when he noticed the throbbing in his knees and the scraped skin on his palms. At least the shock had woken him up a bit, and he was able to take in his surroundings.

         They had brought him to a large room fit for a king to stay in, and Draco felt out of place in his worn down and mud-covered clothes. The way here had taken its toll on them; the hems of his woolen trousers were threadbare and several tears had been stitched crudely by the whores, his tunic was damp with sweat and he was sure he reeked horribly. A bath would have been nice, but when he saw the door that must have led to the bathroom, the few steps it would take him to reach it seemed to great a hurdle.

         So he gave up on the prospect of cleaning himself and looked around the room some more. He saw a large four-poster bed, a desk covered in parchment, a wardrobe and a small table with three chairs around it. On the other side of the windows at the far wall, Grimmauld lay beneath, and he could hear the distant noises of the city—shouting merchants, laughing children, bickering women and celebrating men.

         For a moment, Draco stood in the middle of the room, unsure about what he should do, but then he shrugged and walked over towards the bed, sitting down on its edge. He noted with satisfaction that the beddings were soft and clean, and since he had nothing else he could do, he let himself fall back onto the mattress, revelling in the feeling of it against his sunburnt skin.

         Before he knew it, Draco had fallen asleep.

 

He awoke when someone tugged on one of his feet. For a moment, Draco blinked drowsily at the canopy above him, the memories of where he was eluding him completely. His head felt too heavy and the world was fuzzy around the edges, stars dancing in his vision. The skin of his face and nape felt tight and hot, and his whole body ached, his muscles stiff. He made to raise one hand and rub at his tired eyes, but when he did so, both his hands came up, and he hissed with the burning pain in his wrists.

         It was then that the memories of the past weeks came back to him, a flood of flashing images that nearly drowned him in despair and anger and fear.

         Draco sat upright instantly, ignoring the protest of his burning muscles and the vertigo, and looked down at the floor where Potter was crouching, one of Draco's now-holey and dusty boots in his hands. With a small cry, Draco pulled his feet back abruptly, nearly toppling back onto the mattress again, scrambling for purchase and support with his bound hands. The rough rope tied around his wrists rubbed against the sore skin and he stifled another cry, this time one of pain.

         Potter followed his movements with curious and calm green eyes, still sitting on his haunches next to the bed, fingers playing idly with a hole in the leather of Draco's boots where it was attached to the sole. Draco bared his teeth at him and shifted around on the bed until he had his hands in front of himself, one foot flat on the soft mattress, the other pushing into it with its ball. In this position, he reassured himself, it would be easy to pounce on Potter if need be. After all, they were in a bed room, and Potter had just tried to strip Draco of his clothes.

         The thought made opposing feelings churn inside him—on the one hand, he was concerned for his parents, and determined to sacrifice almost everything for their sake. A satisfied Potter would no doubt be a merciful Potter, and maybe, if he did what was asked of him, Draco could convince the rebel leader to let them walk free even.

         On the other hand, the thought of lying back and spreading his legs for the dark-haired barbarian made his stomach churn. Never had he lain with a man, or a woman for that matter, sheltered as he had been raised. Of course, he was not ignorant of the concept of sex, after all, he'd spent the greatest part of his life in the vast library of Malfoy Castle. However, thinking of doing something so intimate with someone who had been—and still was—his family's enemy not too long ago, made bile rise in his throat, and Draco swallowed against it, his eyes wide as he did not dare to blink for the fear Potter might move and overpower him in the short amount of time in which he would have his eyes closed.

         Apparently aware of Draco's inner turmoil, Potter remained where he was, moving slowly as he set the boot down on the ground and then raised his hands, palms turned towards Draco in a manner that made Draco feel like he was a wild animal that had been backed into a corner. Warily, he watched with stinging eyes as Potter rose slowly, knees popping and hands still raised. Now that Potter had the advantage of height, Draco straightened and crawled back slowly, edging towards the other side of the bed to use it as a hurdle between them. Never did he let Potter out of his sight as he did so, and he only released his breath when he felt the cold stone floor beneath his naked foot.

         Still dizzy, he held onto one of the bed posts before he could collapse to the ground. The room was spinning dangerously around him, making his stomach roll something fierce, and the stars still hadn't retreated from his vision, dancing merely as if they were mocking his poor prospects. Should Potter decide to simply take what he wanted, Draco would not stand a chance, especially not in his current condition. He feared the sun might have genuinely cooked his brain in his skull like a stew in its cauldron.

         Those thoughts, however, did not make him back down or give up, and so he bared his teeth at Potter, who was simply standing at the other side of the bed, eyeing him carefully. He was still wearing the clothes Draco had seen him in the first time, the simple leather jerkin and linen trousers, now dusty from the sandy streets of Grimmauld. His hair was as unruly as ever, thick strands of it standing up at odd angles, and the round spectacles framing his eyes were grimy to a point where Draco seriously doubted he could see much, contrary to the intensity of Potter's gaze.

         They stood like this for what felt like eternity, and Draco felt as if Potter was rooting him to the spot sheerly with the power of his green eyes. In his chest, his heart was beating as fast as a hare's when the creature found itself eye in eye with a predator, caught in the petrifying moment of overwhelming dread before the instinct to flee rushed towards the surface and took everything else away; thoughts and pain and exhaustion fading as the world became sharp.

         Potter was a mountain lion, and Draco was his prey.

         The memories of his parents and the thought of his responsibilities all flew from his mind when Potter took the first step towards him.

         Draco ran.

         He whirled on his heel and made for the door several steps away, his bound arms stretched out before him to reach for the handle, but the floor seemed to stretch out impossibly, making the short distance between him and freedom incredibly wide. He did not dare look over his shoulder at what Potter was doing, his eyes only seeing the wooden door ahead as he stumbled towards it, fingertips grazing the cold metal of the handle.

         Something heavy barrelled into his side and his head connected painfully with the door as he was thrown to the ground, bruising his hip and elbow on the stone floor. Draco cried out, the air rushing from his lungs when Potter rammed his shoulder into his stomach and then pinned him down with his body's weight. Even though the room was spinning so fast it turned into a colourful blur around him and his head throbbed with every of his rapid heartbeats, Draco struggled against the restraining hands closing painfully around his shoulders and pushing him into the cold stone beneath him. His fingers where scratching over Potter's leather-clad chest, nails catching in the metal buckles, and the blood rushing in his ears made him deaf to the screams around them, Potter's bellows mingling with Draco's wails of fear. He bucked his hips and shook his head and kicked out but nothing was enough to dislodge the man pressing him down.

         There was not enough air and too much pain, and blackness lingered on the edges of Draco's vision, threatening to drag him into unconsciousness.

         And then there was even more pain, blooming in his cheek, tingling and prickling like thousands of needles as his head snapped to the side so fast something in his neck popped. Draco's body went slack and his eyes widened, the sweet, coppery tang of blood pooling on his tongue. Above him, Potter was breathing hard, his face flushed, clumps of black hair sticking to his forehead with perspiration. One of his hands was still raised and curled to a fist, the other clutching Draco's wrists, fingertips digging into the skin until he felt his bones grating against one another.

         When Potter spoke, his voice was harsh and commanding, and it seemed he tried to enforce his order by grabbing Draco's tunic and shaking him roughly as if that would make him understand the foreign words. Draco only whimpered and closed his eyes against the tears stinging inside them. There was nothing he could do. He was utterly at Potter's mercy— _to do with as he pleases_.

         Draco prayed to all the gods Mother had taught him about and pleaded for their help, but nothing stopped Potter from reaching for the small knife in its sheath hanging from the belt around his hips, no divine being descended from its pantheon to save him, and all thoughts about pride and dignity were forgotten in what Draco thought would be his last moments.

         Sobbing desperately, he closed his eyes and waited for the blade to bury itself in his flesh and take his last breath away from him.

         It did not. Instead, the only thing he felt was a tugging at his wrists, the rope scraping over his abused skin before it fell away. Draco opened his eyes and saw Potter inspecting his wrists with a critical eye, brows furrowed, clicking his tongue as if he disapproved of their poor state. A rough thumb skimmed over the reddened skin and Draco winced when he felt a spike of pain where he'd been touched. When Potter brought up his thumb, there was a trail of fresh blood on it.

         He made a sharp hissing sound and shook his head, irritation visible on his tanned face, and then he climbed to his feet, pulling Draco up with him, steadying him with strong hands when he swayed. Draco wished for a moment he was not such a coward and could find the strength inside him to shrug the hands off, but as it was, he couldn't, and Potter's hands felt heavy and hot, burning his skin through the threads of his clothes. Even though they did not press down nor gripped him tightly, it seemed to Draco that there was no escaping those rough hands, holding him captive with the dread he felt inside when Potter led him towards the bed.

         Draco felt numb and empty when he was pushed onto the bed, the silky beddings holding no comfort for all that they should remind him of his home. It merely made what was about to happen only the more dreadful, reminding him inevitably of what he had lost on the day Potter had led his armies and dragons into Elysia. Gone was his name, his title, his power. He had forsaken it when his father had made the offer to Potter, providing them a chance to survive. It had been a strangely honourable thing, offering himself for the sake of his parents. It had allowed him to keep his pride and a last shred of his dignity, for who could see his deed as anything else as the sacrifice it was?

         But now that too would be taken away from him. Potter would seize Draco's pride and dignity when he made him spread his legs for him, rip it away along with his innocence, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut when he rolled onto his back, his body taut as the string of a bow.

         He did not want to see what was happening, but sadly, his mind painted him its very own pictures once he felt his other boot being tugged from his foot. On the inside of his eyelids he could already see Potter climb onto the bed and rid him of his trousers, could see him push Draco's legs to the sides to settle between them. He could already feel the weight of another body resting on top of him, could hear the harsh breathing, could smell the arousal thick in the air. He could imagine the burning pain when Potter would push inside him, making him feel like he was split in halves as the body above him rutted against him like an animal.

         The thought made him taste bile, for it was tinged with despair and overwhelming disgust over the coming violation. Draco's breath hitched as he waited. For the pain. The defilement.

         Nothing happened.

         When Draco finally opened his eyes after long moments of dread and looked around, the room was empty but for himself.


	3. trēs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Ruhe!_ — (German) Silence!  
>  _ragazzo bello_ — (Italian) handsome boy (at least, that's what I think it means. If it's wrong, feel free to correct me)

# III

Draco did not sleep well that night despite the comfortably soft beddings, and it was not for the merry songs of celebration that drifted into the room through the open windows. No, even though the slurred words and off-key singing grated on his nerves and refined tastes, it was not what kept him awake throughout the hours of darkness and roused him from fitful sleep whenever his fatigue had won. He was scared, still, even if he would never admit it out loud and scoff and deny it should someone do as much as insinuate it.

         Scared to see the door handle be pushed down and hear the hinges creak, heralding his doom.

         Sleeping, he would be such an easy target—no, _prey—_ for whichever lust-hungry animal crept into the room to sink its teeth into his flesh and claim him. Draco had no desire to wake to a body above him, holding down his limbs as he was devoured thoroughly in the fires of the intruder's lust.

         And so he sat on the bed, propped up against the headboard, knees drawn to his chest and his arms wound around them, blankets discarded to not let the warmth lull him into rest, and waited. For hours he fought against the leaden weight resting on his lids and kept his grey eyes determinedly on the wood of the door, seeking for movement, listening for heavy footfalls drawing closer to his chambers.

         It's not until the sun starts sending her light through the windows that someone approaches, but their steps were a light shuffle, and not the dreaded sound of heavy boots. The knock on the door surprises him even further, and time ticked by until he remembered that a knock demands an answer. Draco slipped from the bed and positioned himself strategically farthest from the door without backing himself into a corner, the bed serving as a hurdle between him and whoever was asking for entrance. Only then did he call out, his heart beating a quick rhythm against his ribs as he watched the door opening slowly and giving way to a tall, dark-skinned man in servant's clothing.

         “Good morning,” the man said and bowed his head slightly, a smirk curling the corners of his full lips, chocolate brown eyes never leaving Draco, who said nothing in return but nodded slightly in acknowledgement. Never before had he seen someone with such dark skin, not even in the short time he'd spent in Teuto's villages on their way to Grimmauld. Sun-kissed was not a word enough to describe the man's complexion for it was of a dark brown that was almost black. His hair was short and curly and Draco wondered if it would feel as coarse against his fingertips as it looked. Over all, the strange servant looked as if he'd come from a land even further south than Teuto, and he must have been as exotic to these people as Draco himself. It was strangely comforting, and Draco immediately felt a strange kinship with the man.

         “My name is Blaise,” the man introduced himself and took a step into the room. “I will be your servant from now on.”

         “You speak Elysian,” was the first thing Draco said, surprise audible in his voice. He had missed the melody of his tongue, the soft lilt that held no sharp edges as did Teuto's crude speech. It had already been a month since he'd heard his home's language last, yet it felt much longer. Like another lifetime ago, he'd say if he would incline to melodramatics.

         Blaise inclined his head slightly, the smile still playing around his lips, an amused glance in his eyes. “That's why I was chosen to serve you, Draco Malfoy. Your—“ here the servant hesitated for a moment as if he was deciding on the right word ”— _hosts_ decided it would be easier for you to get familiar with your new home if your guide was capable of speaking your own language.”

         At that, Draco's hands clenched at his sides and he spat his next words as if he was trying to get rid of something disgusting, “this is _not_ my home! And _they_ are not my _hosts_! They are my captors! Hosts don't clap their guests in iron and let them walk their feet to bloody pulps at the back of the posse like unwanted vermin. They don't threaten their guests with the death of their family should they not comply to demands.”

         By the end of his heated speech, Draco was breathing hard and he felt the warmth of a flush on his cheeks, yet he did not care. Too great was the pain still about what he had lost, what he had left behind. Blasted Potter and his armies and his bloody lizards! What had Draco done to deserve this? He'd barely left the walls of Malfoy Castle, let alone his chambers or the library. But then again the Teutos were barbarians—righteous laws did not seem to apply to those if Draco's cruel fate was anything to go by.

         The thought made him deflate, and the flame of anger that had burned inside him so fiercely was drowned in a wave of suffocating helplessness. Raging would get him nowhere. There was nothing he could do. Not against Potter or his cronies, his dragons or his armies.

         Blaise tore him away from his musings by saying with a smirk, “a fine speech. Yet I do not think our fearless leader and his friends share your sentiments. Pity, that.”

         Draco looked at the servant incredulously, irritation making itself known inside him as he regarded Blaise thoroughly, taking in his amusement and the smirk that seemed to always be present.

         “Are you always that disrespectful,” Draco asked and sneered. “Or do you only show that side of yours when you are around your _fearless leader's_ slaves?”

         “Well,” Blaise began with a grin and a nonchalant shrug. “Usually I voice my disrespect in Elysian, unless Granger is around, of course.”

         He winked at Draco, who was dumbfounded and needed several moments to find his words again, so surprised was he. Didn't barbarians teach their servants proper manners? Well, since they didn't have manners of their own, trying to teach them to others was clearly a lost cause.

         “You are unbelievable,” he finally said and Blaise simply shrugged yet again.

         “I try. Now, let me show you to the bath and while you get presentable, I will prepare your breakfast.”

 

Draco spent what felt like hours in the wooden bathtub, scrubbing off the dirt and sweat of his journey and Grimmauld's dust until his skin was red and raw. When he finally emerged from the water, it was muddy and grey, but at least he felt cleaner and smelt pleasantly of rose petals. Blaise was already waiting for him next to the tub to offer him a towel and an appreciative look, which was returned with a glare from Draco, who tore the towel from the servant's hands and hastily wrapped it around himself. Blaise only tutted and smirked before schooling his features into a mock obedient mask and then turned around towards the stool Draco's new clothes rested upon. He offered them to Draco with a small bow and then thankfully left the room. Finally, Draco felt like he could breathe freely again.

         Not that he did not feel at least a bit flattered by the attention, yet he was even more flustered by it, for Blaise was brash and lacked the fine skill of subtle charm. Frankly, it reminded him of the whores who leered and cooed, but at least he was spared the groping so far. The thought of dark, large hands gripping his flesh made him shudder and he discarded it with the towel. When he took the the robe he had been given, Draco hesitated for a moment and let the smooth, cold silk run through his fingers like water. It was of exquisite quality, the colour a dark midnight blue that almost looked like it was black, and he was sure it complimented his complexion extraordinarily, the darkness of the cloth creating a startling contrast to his fair skin. He wondered distantly if Potter had chosen his clothes, but then decided that, judging by the man's preferred style of clothing, Blaise was the far more likely option.

         When Draco slipped the robe on, he found it was perfectly cut for his form; it accentuated his shoulders and narrow hips without feeling too tight and the wide folds of the skirt swished around his legs refreshingly, allowing enough air circulation to ward off Grimmauld's suffocating heat. The collar was high without being restricting, and together with the finely crafted silver clasps that held the robe together at the front it looked almost regal, perfectly fitting for a prince with its subtle elegance. Draco ran his hands reverently over the cloth as he regarded his reflection in the mirror. Never had he dared thinking he would wear clothing such as this again. He had feared he would have been given scraps of clothing—or nothing at all.

         That thought as well was gotten rid of quickly, and Draco determinedly kept his mind empty of all thoughts connected to naked, sweaty, tangled bodies as he stepped out of the bathroom and back into the chamber, spotting Blaise setting up the small table with Draco's breakfast platter. He could already smell the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread waft through the room towards him and he inhaled deeply. After weeks of watery broth and stale bread the mounts of fresh food, meat and eggs he could see looked divine.

         “That looks delectable,” he said out loud before he could stop himself, and the servant turned towards him.

         “Just like you, if I dare say so,” Blaise said, but his smile was for once more warm than sly, and his teeth were extraordinarily white in contrast to his dark skin. Draco offered a slightly wary but nonetheless thankful nod as he strode towards the table to sit down in the chair the servant had drawn back for him. The smell of the food in front of him was mouth-watering and his stomach clenched immediately around the emptiness inside it, reminding Draco that it had been almost a full day since he'd last eaten, so he dug in with gusto while still keeping his dignity in front of Blaise, who was now filling a goblet with what seemed to be spiced tea. Draco accepted it and sniffed carefully, trying to make out the different spices, yet he came up with nothing familiar. It was all a mixture of sweet and sharp, and even bitter, so he took the first sip gingerly, rolling the hot liquid around on his tongue as he decided if he liked it or not.

         It was so different from tea at home, which was served with hot milk and sweet honey and a pinch of cinnamon against the cold.

         But of course, here in Grimmauld where the sun shone longer and much more unforgiving, there was no need to ward off coldness. Draco grimaced and concentrated on his food, focusing his attention completely on the fluffy consistence of the scrambled eggs and the sweetness of the grapes. Blaise was, thankfully, silent.

         Draco had already finished most of his breakfast when the door was shoved open unceremoniously, and a weary and dishevelled-looking Potter entered with wide strides. At the sight of his captor, Draco went rigid and his heart adopted once again the now familiar agitated rhythm, beating wildly against the confines of his chest as he watched surprise unfold on Potter's tanned face when he noticed Draco and Blaise at last. It was quickly gone, replaced by exhaustion that showed in the dark, swollen bags beneath green eyes and the way the corners of Potter's mouth were turned towards the ground.

         One calloused hand came up to drag through the wild tangles of black hair, and green eyes lingered on Draco. He had turned away quickly to frown at his foot in concentration, but he could still _feel_ Potter looking; the weight of his burning gaze as hot as the fire of his precious dragons, and it made his hands tremble so violently he had to put his cutlery down unless he'd draw even more attention by making it clink against the metal of the plate, showing his weakness. Something heavy had lodged itself in his stomach and pressed against its walls, making him nauseous to the point that he feared his breakfast would make an undignified reappearance, and he swallowed determinedly against the bile rising to his throat.

         Only when he felt the weight of Potter's gaze lifting from him, could Draco breathe again, and as he released the air from his lungs, he hoped the other men could not hear how shaky it was.

         Potter said something in clipped tones and Blaise answered quietly, the softness of his voice soothing to Draco's nerves as he was helped to his feet by the servant and then steered towards the door, his eyes never leaving the stone floor until the room and Potter lay behind them.

         “Breathe, Draco,” Blaise said next to his ear and Draco startled and tripped over his own feet. Only Blaise's hands prevented him from falling to the ground, and he gladly accepted the support of his strong arms and chest as he was held upright—for once not frightened by the intimacy of their close proximity. He had other things clustering his mind; fleeting images of the last night taunting him with his helplessness as Potter had thrown him to the ground, the fears of his coming defilement excruciatingly vivid. It left him lightheaded and made his breathing short and bated, Blaise's voice a senseless stream of words he did not recognize in his ear.

         “Hush, now, hush, Dragon,” the servant whispered and raised a hand from where it had held Draco around his waist to comb it now through silver strands of hair, fingertips massaging the scalp beneath. It was the endearment, so similar to that of his mother, and the name she had called him so often when they had been in the privacy of his chambers or her gardens, that made the dam finally break to release the flood of Draco's sadness and grief. It overwhelmed and dragged him down, made him slump even more in Blaise's arms as he buried his face in the crook of the servant's neck and cried, wailed, sobbed with the onslaught of sentiments.

         Never would he hear his mother call him her little Dragon again, never would he feel her delicate fingers stroke his hair soothingly and rub his neck for comfort. Never again would she hold him when illness made him bedridden and weak, her voice as warming and comforting as the potions his godfather Severus had brewed.

         Blaise, thank the Gods, did not flinch when he felt the tears dampening the cloth of his tunic, but instead tightened his arms even further around the sobbing form of the former prince and pulled him into a hidden alcove, shielding him thoroughly from the prying eyes of servants and guards patrolling the corridors. He himself did not pay heed any longer to the words spilling from his lips as he tried to offer comfort. The foreign princeling had immediately found his way into the servant's heart, not only for his exotic beauty. Blaise knew how it felt to find oneself amidst people who looked so different and spoke in a language not one's own, had seen the curious glances himself and heard the whispers. Although he had revelled the attention, for Blaise was well aware of his pleasing appearance, he understood that the young Malfoy had lost too much too fast, and no one had allowed him to grieve as yet.

         Arrogant and prickly he might be, and Blaise had taken pleasure from the little game he had played and had been delighted to see the blush blooming on those high cheekbones like pink blossoms on a field of snow, but he'd also seen the fire burning inside the prince, had listened to his outrage and could not help but sympathize. Draco Malfoy was intriguing, endearing even with the way he blushed when faced with a man's advances—so _innocent—_ and it was impressive to see that the fight had not yet left him. The day it would, Blaise was sure he would mourn the loss, and he would do everything he could to keep the flame burning as long as possible.

         If that meant offering comfort and staying with Draco in his moments of weakness, he would gladly do so and hold the prince as his body shook with sobs and tears poured without restraint from eyes the colour of the sky on a rainy day.

         He did not know how long they had stood in the alcove, Draco weeping and Blaise holding him, until the princeling had calmed down enough to realize what he had been doing. Immediately, Draco went rigid and Blaise released him from his embrace and stepped back, wordlessly offering a handkerchief so that the other could wipe his face and dispel the remaining traces of his pain. Blaise kept his face blank and was careful to banish any signs of pity even from his eyes. He was sure such sentiment would not be welcome, so the servant remained silent as he took the kerchief back and then wordlessly led Draco down the corridors towards the kitchens, keeping the prince between himself and the wall, glaring whenever a curious maid or scullion had the audacity to stare. When the young boys or girls found themselves at the receiving end of such a glower, they scurried away hurriedly.

         Draco, on the other hand, kept his chin high and his gaze in front of him, yet his eyes were unseeing, the walls of the corridors a blurred shadow, and only the servant's hand on his elbow prevented him from walking into things. Despite his embarrassment, Draco was incredibly thankful for the man, but the remains of his pride did not allow him to say so. However, he hoped Blaise still knew. Maybe, he thought, just maybe he had found a friend in the servant, someone who could ease his pain the slightest bit and help him live through the plight that had befallen him.

         The thought made reassuring warmth spread in his chest, and the two walked in silence through narrow corridors and descended stairs, heads turning to look after the odd pair, complete opposites in their appearance.

         When they came to a halt in front of a small, unobtrusive door through which Draco could already smell the scent of roasted meat and vegetables, Blaise turned towards him and smiled.

         “This,” he said solemnly and indicated the door with a flourish. “Leads towards the kitchens, which are the realm of Molly Weasley herself. If you prefer your pretty head remain on your neck, be polite. And do try not to suffocate.”

         With that, Blaise smirked and pushed open the door, slipping into the room behind it before Draco could have asked him what that last piece of advice was about. Deciding it was most likely irrelevant and merely another attempt to confuse him, Draco followed and was immediately greeted by more than a dozen pair of eyes staring back at him. The scrutiny made his skin itch, and he hurriedly looked around for his new friend to find him standing a few feet away, poking with a wooden spoon at the contents of a pot simmering over one of the fireplaces. Apparently only now noticing the sudden silence, Blaise looked up and around until he saw Draco edging closer towards him. Taking pity, he said something to the scullions and cookmaids, and Draco could make out his own and Potter's name. There were a few surprised gasps and then chattering filled the room. The glances that were directed at Draco had changed from confused and curios to suspicious, disgusted and even awed. Blaise tried to order them to continue working, but his bellows were drowned in the rising voices which were by now shouting excitedly through the room.

         “ _Ruhe!_ ”

         The command was sharp as a whiplash and followed by heavy silence. All heads turned towards a plump woman standing on the threshold of one of the many doors leading away from the kitchen. She had her hands on her hips and the disapproving look she levelled at each of her kitchen helps in turn was quite impressive as she began scolding them in a stream of more Teuton. Shoulders hunching, scullions and cookmaids turned back around to continue with their tasks, mien cowed.

         Draco had to admit begrudgingly that he was impressed with the woman. Her red hair identified her as Weasley without a doubt, and he had heard many a story from his father about the poor aristocrats who had lost most of their gold in the first years of the Emperor's rule. The Weasleys, so Father had told him, were undignified traitors who had sided with Dumbledore and his Phoenix Order and got what they'd deserved. Arthur, his wife and their litter of redheaded brats had had to leave their stately home to hide in Grimmauld with the revolutionaries.

         Draco had thought he would never be able to feel anything but disgust towards the family, especially since Ronald Weasley's freckled face had been present when they had torn him away from his parents. However, now that he stood in the kitchens of Grimmauld Castle— _Molly Weasley's realm_ as Blaise had called it—he could not help but admire the sheer authority the woman seemed to give off in waves. As a young boy, Draco had sometimes sneaked through the hidden servant corridors of his family's castle, pretending he was going on an adventure like the heroes of the tales mother told him of before he went to sleep. One of those days, he had found himself in the kitchens and had hidden in the shadows until he could steal a bit of the pudding that would be served that evening. As he sat and waited for the right moment, he had watched Martha, their cook, giving instructions and shouting orders, and although the woman had been stern and didn't shy away from using a rod to punish clumsy underlings, she had never quite been able to make the boys and girls working in the castle's kitchens return to their work as fast as Molly Weasley just had.

         The woman turned towards Blaise now, her eyes narrowed in disapproval as she quickly walked over towards him and took the spoon from his hands, using it to hit him over the fingers once before stirring the contents of the pot while telling him off for disrupting the order in her kitchen. Blaise grinned and shook out his hands, his voice nonchalant as he answered something and then gestured towards Draco, which made her turn at last towards him, eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, Draco thought he would be thrown out of the kitchen, especially when Mrs Weasley shot a reproachful glower at Blaise, but then her mien morphed into something soft and motherly, and in a few quick steps she had crossed the distance between them and engulfed the young man in a bone-crushing hug.

         Draco was too startled to do anything but let her pull him in, the side of his face pressed against her ample bosom, one of her hands resting on the back of his neck, her other arm around his shoulders. She was petting his head comfortingly while releasing a stream of Teuton like a clucking mother hen. Suddenly, Blaise' ominous warning made perfect sense.

         He caught the servant's eye with the one of his own that was not currently pressed against the Weasley matriarch's chest, and tried his best to glare at Blaise as he smirked back at him with obvious amusement. Somewhere to his right, someone giggled.

         Draco was released from the embrace after what felt like a century and he did not even have the time to straighten his hair, nor his clothes, before he was steered towards a table in one of the kitchen's corners by Molly's hands on his shoulders. She kept on talking as she made him sit down in one of the chairs, seemingly not caring if he understood or not. Draco watched, speechless, while she wandered off, continuing her chatter, only stopping shortly to scold a dawdling scullion.

         Next to him, Blaise sat down with a relaxed sigh, one arm thrown over the back of Draco's chair as he made himself comfortable, still grinning.

         “I hate you,” Draco hissed, without turning to him, his gaze still resting on Molly Weasley as she busied herself at the hearth, pouring milk into a small cauldron.

         “You wound me, my Prince,” Blaise responded, his eyes widening comically and his mouth turning down into a pout. Draco almost laughed, but settled for a scowl instead, furrowing his brows. The smirk returned to the servant's face, and he leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “but believe me, my friend, you will thank me for bringing you here when dear Molly has finished what she's doing.”

         With that, Blaise winked, and got comfortable again, fingers tapping a soft rhythm against the table top while he hummed and ignored Draco when he inquired after what exactly Molly Weasley was doing, only offering a mysterious, “you'll see.”

         Molly returned after some time with two cups, which she placed in front of the two men, a sweet, spicy smell wafting from them together with the steam curling over it. She looked expectantly at Draco, which exchanged a quick glance with Blaise, who'd already drawn his cup near and was cradling it delicately in his two hands, sipping carefully at the hot beverage within. Hesitantly, Draco reached out for his own cup, peering inside to see it was filled with hot chocolate, and when he lifted it to his lips and took a first tentative sip, he tasted cinnamon and the tartness of the dark chocolate, chased by the sweetness of sugar. It was divine.

         Closing his eyes, Draco hummed his approval, savouring the perfect combination of flavours. A tenseness in his shoulders he had not been aware of until then withdrew finally. The kitchen helps' silent chatter, the clanking of pots and pans, and the warmth of the fires in the hearths spread over him like a soft blanket of comfort, wrapping around him, and for the first time in a month, he smiled.

 

 

They stayed in the kitchen for a bit, Draco brooding and staring into the depths of his cup while Blaise talked to Molly Weasley, answering her questions and occasionally translating what she said into Elysian for Draco. The woman fussed over him for a bit before she had to continue with overseeing the cooking of lunch and Blaise pulled Draco out of the kitchen and back into Grimmauld Castle's narrow, winding halls to show him around. Draco, too caught in thoughts of home and his family, did not listen to Blaise's explanations, and quickly forgot all the entrances to the servant tunnels, and finally, Blaise stopped talking and simply walked with him, a silent, already slightly familiar presence at his side.

         Only a handful of guards and servants walked past them, but Draco paid them no heed, unwilling to see the curious glances they shot him. Neither did he want to see all these unfamiliar faces with their dark eyes and dark hair and dark skin, their foreign clothing and Phoenix crests on their chest. So he walked on, unseeing, the different halls and corridors bleeding together into one endless, dark, chilly tunnel that wound around itself like a labyrinth.

         Eventually, after what felt like hours of walking, Blaise closed his hand around Draco's elbow and pulled him out into the open through a small door, that was half hidden behind a stone gargoyle baring its teeth. Draco half expected to find himself back in the dusty courtyard he had been in the day before, but instead he was standing in a small, overgrown garden squeezed into the space between the outer ward and the castle wall.

         “This,” Blaise said with a carefree and warm smile, encompassing the garden with a sweeping motion of his hand, “is my hiding place.”

         Draco did not answer, but only stared, wide-eyed, enjoying the feel of a cold breeze caressing his skin. The garden lay in shadow by this time of day, a high tower blocking the sun from sending her light into this tranquil corner of the castle. Even the restless sounds of the city were muted here, faraway, the twitter of songbirds nearly drowning it. Draco looked around. In the far corner, a gnarled apple tree stood, branches heavy with ripe fruits, and at Draco's feet, a carpet of grass spread out. It was not as green or lush as Draco was used to seeing—it was looking rather pitiful—but still. It felt peaceful, standing here.

         Blaise sank down and sat cross-legged, tugging on Draco's wrist until he followed and sat beside him, turning his face up into the breeze, eyes closed. They did not speak, and for a moment, Draco forgot all about his company, until Blaise said, silently, “I hope you appreciate this grand gesture of mine, Princeling. Nobody but me knows of this place.”

         He chuckled softly. “I come here to hide from Granger. Frightening woman.”

         Draco hoped he only imagine the wistful tone the servant's voice had adopted when talking about the sorceress. Else he would have to worry about his new friend's sanity.

         “Do not call me 'princeling',” he finally said and glared at Blaise, who laughed, his head thrown back.

         “I see your gratitude knows no bounds,” he commented and Draco scoffed.

         “So does your disrespect, but do you hear me complaining?” he responded and Blaise shoved his shoulder playfully. Draco was so surprised by the servant's blatant refusal to treat him appropriately, that he did not know how to react until Blaise cuffed the back of his head, challenge in his eyes, and Draco was torn from his confused stupor. Frowning, he lunged, throwing his whole weight against the other man, both of them toppling over. Blaise gave a surprised shout and did not retaliate for a long moment as Draco started pounding his chest with his fists until the other finally gathered his wits again and grabbed Draco's shoulders, rolling them around until he was on top. Laughing and shouting, the two wrestled with each other, Blaise grabbing handfuls of grass to rub it into Draco's hair and Draco in turn tearing and tugging on Blaise' clothing.

         When they finally stopped, they were both dishevelled and out of breath, Draco laying on top of Blaise, straddling one of his thighs as he held himself upright, elbows locked and hands on each side of Blaise' head. Blaise stared up at him with a soft smile curling the corners of his full lips, dark brown eyes full of warmth. With one of his hands he reached up and brushed a strand of hair out of Draco's face, tugging it behind his ear, dislodging a blade of grass in doing so. For a moment, his hand lingered there, calloused pad of a thumb caressing over the hinge of Draco's jaw. The soft, careful touch made a shiver run down Draco's spine, but it was not the uncomfortable feeling he had gotten to know over the last two fortnights since he left his home. It was the opposite, in fact, making foreign, confusing, but also intriguing warmth spread in his chest and pool in his stomach, and without prompting, his eyes closed nearly completely, only leaving narrow slits for him to see.

         “ _Ragazzo bello_ ,” Blaise murmured softly, and then, “the blush suits you, Princeling. I nearly thought you were truly made of snow. No wonder you caught Potter's eye.”

         Draco reared back as if struck, falling off Blaise and rolling to his feet quickly. His hands balled to fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He was not sure if he wanted to weep or struck out at the servant for reminding him of his dire straits now that he'd found this moment and place of peace and companionship.

         But Blaise already seemed to know that he'd said too much—his face had sobered and he was climbing to his feet as well, straightening up and brushing the grass from his clothes, expression neutral, eyes looking everywhere but at Draco.

         “I should bring you back now,” he said and took the few steps towards the door, holding it open for Draco. It took several moments of tense silence until Draco stepped through.

 

 

Thankfully, Potter was not in the room when Blaise and Draco returned to the bed chambers, and Blaise quickly left with the excuse to get dinner from the kitchens. Draco was grateful and simply nodded, making his way over towards the bed before changing his mind and sitting down heavily in one of the chairs. With Blaise gone, it was eerily silent in the room, and Draco shifted in his chair, straining his ears to hear the sounds of Grimmauld and the castle, hoping to find some distraction. Yet, all it did was reminding him once again of how far away from home he was, how he did not understand most of the language being spoken in the streets, nor recognize any of the faces passing him in the corridors. He was alone and forlorn, held by invisible chains.

         They draped him with fine clothing, fed him delicious meals and bedded him on silken sheets, allowed him to walk through the castle grounds, but he knew what he was now. Nothing more than a pretty bird captured and put into a gilded cage.

         thought made his throat clamp shut, and he swallowed, trying to breathe deep and slow, but the only thing that happened was his breathing speeding up, turning into ragged, short gasps, and finally, sobs. Heaving himself out of the chair, Draco stumbled towards the windows, shoving the shutters open with trembling hands. With his arms propped up on the window sill, he leaned forward, fighting to take deep breaths, blinking against the tears in his eyes. Angrily, he rubbed over his cheeks when the first fell. It wouldn't do to let Potter see how upset he was when he came back.

         He had not been standing long in front of the windows when he was distracted by a piercing roar. Startled, he forgot all about his sadness and stared, entranced, as the giant form of one of the dragons rose in the air with a few wing beats, rearing its head to release another wailing bellow at the sun. It was Potter's beast, he recognized it from the crown of horns and its huge size.

         Draco stood and watched as the dragon did somersaults and corkscrew patterns in the sky, rising high and diving low, looking like the embodiment of freedom.

         Like a thrall taking hold of him, Draco could do nothing but watch, his gaze stuck to the beautiful play, the graceful and fluid movements of the beast. Like the fish's element was water, the dragon's was the air, and while they could look awkward and cumbersome on the ground, they were a breathtaking sight as soon as they took flight.

         Soon, Potter's dragon was joined by the other two, and together they flew, weaving around each other like dancers, sometimes looking like they just barely avoided grazing one another with their wide spread wings. Their roars mingled, and Draco thought he heard the tone of them changing in pitch and intent, turning from playful to a warning or something close to affection. He saw the three dragons nipping at each other's tails, giant heads snapping forwards to close for no longer than a heartbeat's time around the armoured limbs before letting go again.

         Mesmerized, he looked on, as the terrifying beasts who'd brought destruction and defeat to his lands played now like a litter of kitten, and he longed to join them, to grow wings that would carry him up and away, to jump from the window's ledge and let the currents of air lift him to the skies and never let him back down, the world rushing by beneath him, clouds the only ceilings for the rest of his life.

         No chains, no rider, no captor.

         Freedom. Only that, in its purest form.

         He stayed in front of the windows until the sun set and the three dragons were no more than black silhouettes against the backdrop of the red sky.


	4. quattuor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because possessive!protective!Harry is my favourite, you get some in this chapter. ;) Oh yeah, and half naked men, I should not forget that. Ehehehe.
> 
>  _Wasser_ — (German) water  
>  _jetzt_ — (German) now

# IV

Potter made himself scarce, and Draco was as relieved by it as he was confused.

         The first week since he had arrived in Grimmauld had turned into a game of waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was torn between wanting Potter to finally come to him and get it over with—whatever _it_ turned out to be—and hoping the barbarian would stay as far away from him as possible and simply forget about him and the Malfoy name altogether. The memories of his parents, of his mother's pained mien and his father's expectant face, were vivid in his mind, reminding him every hour of the day that he had a role to fulfil, that he, Draco, had been given to the War Chief of the order so that his parents would not be harmed. He was certain that in the fateful moment Father had offered his only heir to the enemies, his purpose had become to humour Potter, cater to his every need.

         Yet, so far, he had done nothing to comply.

         Draco wanted to scream and rage at Potter, but whenever he saw the man, the dark-haired warrior simply ignored him, exchanging a few words with Blaise before the servant nodded and pulled Draco away, deaf to the former prince's words of protest.

         Maybe, Draco had thought, Blaise could help him, tell him what was expected of him, what he was supposed to do to ensure his family's safety, but whenever he tried to speak to the servant about it, Blaise grimaced and shrugged, assuring that he had no idea what Potter wanted but the obvious, and could not help Draco.

         It was frustrating, and more than once, Draco made sure to share his bad mood with his companion when Blaise came to him in the morning to bring his breakfast and then take him on another walk through the castle. It was even more frustrating that Blaise did not seem to be in the least perturbed by Draco's scathing remarks and cruel barbs towards the servant whenever he had a bad day.

         For two days, Draco had not seen Potter, only the traces he left behind when he came to the chambers while Draco was out—leaving the bed in a messy state that spoke of restless sleep or even nightmares, crumbled parchment on the desk, a dirty platter sitting on the small table, a sweat-stained tunic on the ground next to the bathtub.

         “Do none of the servants in this bloody castle know how to do their work,” Draco was saying now to Blaise, cursing the fine silken slippers he was wearing for he preferred the clicking of a boot's heel to show his displeasure in his walk. Bloody Grimmauld and its bloody weather.

         The servant snickered and bit his bottom lip, listening to Draco's rant with amusement.

         “Whenever I get back to my rooms, there are traces of Potter everywhere. It looks, frankly, like I'm sharing the chamber with a pig rather than the leader of one of the mightiest armies in the land,” Draco continued, but then frowned, contemplating. “But then again I am a prisoner of barbarians, so what do I expect? It is a miracle that you even found something appropriate to wear for me here, did you see the atrocity Granger was wearing yesterday? In Elysia, even a wench would not be caught dead in a rag like that.”

         Draco shuddered exaggeratedly, one hand coming up to rest over his heart like he took personal offence at Granger's chosen clothes, and Blaise laughed, laying one hand on Draco's shoulder and stroking it down his clothed arm, caressing the fabric, which was of a glossy, dark green today, similar to the colour of oak leaves.

         “Believe me, Princeling, in all of Taress, no man nor woman has as refined tastes as you when it comes to clothing,” the servant said, his smirk gaining a predatory edge as he added like an afterthought, “and nobody would look quite as stunning as you in these clothes anyway.”

         Rolling his eyes, Draco swatted at the servant's arm, by now used to Blaise's advances. He did not even blush any longer.

         “Quiet, you,” he said. “And I'll have you know, both my Father and Mother had very fine tastes when it comes to clothing, where else would I have learned to dress appropriately?”

         His voice had grown quieter and quieter the longer he'd spoken, and by the last word, it was no more than a whisper. Draco did not look at his friend, but he could feel Blaise tensing beside him, and it was not long until he was stopped by an arm winding around his shoulders. With forefinger and middle finger of his right hand, Blaise lifted Draco's chin and turned his face towards him, looking deeply into the former prince's eyes.

         “Draco,” the servant began, eyes severe and gaze intense. “Nothing is going to happen to your parents as long as they abide by the word your father has given. Believe me when I say you have nothing to fear from Potter's side. He will not go back on his word. It might as well be written in stone.”

         Draco blinked against the burning in his eyes and swallowed, trying his hardest to hold the servant's gaze. “But can you say the same about his followers?” he finally choked out, the words a broken whisper.

         “You did not see them, Blaise, did not hear their taunts. You do not have to be fluent in Teuton to understand the hatred they hold for my family. Potter is here, how is he supposed to stop them if they decide to take my parents' punishment into their own hands?”

         Blaise looked away for a moment, shaking his head. “He would punish the culprits severely,” he finally said, and Draco laughed, a high-pitched, uncomfortable sound.

         “But that would not bring my parents back to life,” he said bitterly, his gaze dropping to the ground, dark tendrils of fear closing around his heart and squeezing. Blaise took his shoulders with both hands, giving him a slight shake, “Draco—“

         “ _Diener_ ,” a voice came, loud and demanding from the end of the hallway, and both men looked towards its source. They saw a guard walking in quick, wide strides towards them, most of his face hidden from sight by his helmet as he spoke on in a stream of Teuton, gesticulating towards the direction Blaise and Draco had come from. Blaise answered, keeping his voice devoid of emotion, but Draco could see he was annoyed by the small pulsing of a muscle in his jaw, and he stepped half behind his friend, fearing the conversation was about him.

         The longer they talked, the more irritated the guard seemed to get, his gestures becoming more and more impatient and demanding as he spoke. Finally, Blaise' shoulder slumped slightly, and he gave a curt nod, watching the guard as he strutted away.

         The servant turned and took Draco's elbow, dragging him back down the corridor.

         “I have to take care of something,” he informed Draco as they walked towards where the corridor split into two hallways leading into opposite directions. “Be a good princeling and return to your chambers. I will be there as soon as possible.”

         “What?” Draco protested and tried to dig his heels into the floor, but Blaise did not seem to even notice it. “But I do not know the way!”

         “Just follow this corridor and then take the servants' way hidden behind the tapestry of Bogard the Lunatic slaying the Sphinx of Alexia. It will lead you to the kitchens and then turn right, then left at the next crossing. I have to go now,” Blaise said and released Draco, turning on his heel and quickly walking off into the opposite direction, vanishing around a corner before Draco had gathered enough of his wits for a response.

         The silence that fell was immediate and oppressing, and Draco realized with a sudden clarity that he had no idea where he was, Blaise's directions already slipping from his mind. So he stood for what felt like eternity, staring at the corner his friend had ducked around, debating with himself if he should take his chances and try finding his way back on his own, risking to be thought a spy and end up in the dungeons, or simply remain where he was until Blaise noticed he was not where he was supposed to and came to get him. Draco felt, for all intents and purposes, like a lost child. If children would get lost in enemy territory, that is.

         He was still trying to make a decision when he heard heavy footfalls coming towards him, the clinking of armour accompanying the sound, and suddenly, getting lost in the Castle's halls and corridors did not seem as frightening any longer. Quickly, Draco turned on his heel and started walking, hoping he might run into a cookmaid or servant that recognized him and would show him his way back. Behind him, the heavy steps faded into silence, but Draco did not stop nor slow his pace as he walked on, keeping his eyes on the walls in search for the tapestry Blaise had mentioned.

         But, as it was, he found neither the servants' way, nor any servants for that matter, and when he eventually ran into a dead end, Draco realized that he was well and truly lost. With an oath his mother would have scolded him for, he turned around and retracted his steps, stomping his feet and hunching his shoulders, fighting a surge of fear with annoyance and searching his memories for Blaise' instructions. To his distress he came up with nothing, and when he finally reached a crossing, Draco had forgotten all about the way he'd come from. Blasted Grimmauld and his corridors. One looked like the next, and windows through which he could at least determine cardinal directions were rare to keep the heat at bay.

         So Draco chose the right turn, stomping on and muttering under his breath about barbarians and their terrible architecture. No Elysian member of nobility would degrade themselves enough to live in a fortress such as this. It was an audacity to even call this a castle.

         At the next crossing, Draco chose to go to the left, slowing his pace when he finally realized that he had not once been here during his walks with Blaise. Finally, he gave up and stopped, heaving a long-suffering sigh. At least he was sure any attackers who ever set their minds on storming the castle would fail, getting lost before they even reached the insides of the castle, and die a horrible death of starvation. The thought made him chuckle bitterly, and he continued his walk at a slow pace, deciding he could as well take a stroll until someone found him and brought him back to his rooms.

         To each side of him, dusty tapestries covered the walls, and he took some time to look at the men and women depicted, some telling the tales of heroic fights, others simply serving as a reminder of the former rulers of Teuto, showing kings with queens sitting at their sides, looking down their nose at the people passing them.

         He was just admiring the hideous dress of the late Aurora III of the House of Cornfoot, when he heard the a pair of dark voices coming from a corridor around the corner. With a last glance at Aurora's pinched visage, Draco sped up his steps and rounded the corner, following the voices in hopes of catching up with the owners so that he could ask them for directions. He found himself at another crossing, the voices coming from his right, and he did not linger long before following, finding himself at the beginning of a gallery overlooking a courtyard, the sound of blades clashing and men laughing good-naturedly with each other drifting in through the open arches decorating the solid stone balustrade.

         The two men he had been trying to follow could no longer be heard, over the noise from outside, and, hesitantly, Draco stepped forwards to look through one of the arches, fingers curling around the delicate columns as he leaned in to look down.

         Beneath him, the courtyard was filled with battling men, training their swordsmanship in pairs, others standing around them, leaning against the walls to rest in the shadows, gesticulating and talking while they shared drinking skins. Some of them had taken off their jerkins and breast plates, trying to seek refuge from the merciless sun in a cool breeze, and Draco could see chests and backs glistening with sweat. Swallowing, he redirected his gaze and looked for a familiar face, telling himself the warmth on his cheeks was the sun's fault and had nothing to do with the movement of muscles beneath tanned skin. That would be ridiculous.

         Finally, his eyes were caught by a flaming mop of red hair at the far side of the courtyard, and he saw Weasley in battle with none other than Potter, both men grinning as they swiped at each other with their weapons, stabbing, and twisting and leaping out of the way while they laughed and shouted.

         It was impressive, Draco realized begrudgingly, how good they both were.

         Potter moved with the grace Draco had already noticed the first time he'd laid eyes on the barbarian, his movements quick and sure, fluent, as he parried a downwards swipe directed at his left shoulder, metal grinding against metal as he used his own blade to hold Weasley's away from himself, crossing the distance between the two of them and twisting his arm up at the last moment to direct a blow with his elbow to the taller man's chest. Weasley stepped to the side in the last moment, twisting around in a full circle to try and stab Potter's back, only failing because the dark-haired warrior dropped to his stomach and rolled away, jumping back to his feet in an astonishing display of skill and grace.

         He called something that sounded like a taunt, lips spread in a broad grin, and Weasley laughed as answer, both men circling each other like predators waiting for an opportunity to strike.

         And Draco had thought Teuto had to thank their dragons for their quick and brutal victories.

         Entranced, he watched as the men wove around each other, evenly matched. What Weasley lacked in grace and quickness he made up with his bulk and strength, more than once blocking a blow lesser men would not have been able to hold against, and Potter was swift to dodge the attacks on his person, leaping, rolling or twisting out of harm's way.

         Draco leaned in further, squinting to see the two men better from the distance, deaf to the quick footsteps drawing closer until he was roughly grabbed by the back of his collar, its front cutting off his breath for a moment as he was pulled back unceremoniously, losing his footing and falling to the ground, palms scraping open on the stone, spike of pain chasing up his spine as he landed, hard, on his arse.

         Coughing and blinking the tears of shock and pain from his eyes, Draco tried to find words as a stream of harsh Teuton was directed at him, the blurry form of a guard towering over him, face a grimace of hatred.

         “No, I didn't do anything,” he explained weakly, interrupted by more coughing, raising his hands to show his innocence. “I got lost.”

         The guard, of course, understood none of his words, and snarled, his left hand fisting the strands of blond hair as he pulled Draco up by them, making the young man cry out in pain and scramble to his feet so that he not had all of them ripped out. With his sword unsheathed in his other hand, the guard started walking, pulling a struggling Draco with him on his hair, tugging more than once harder than necessary to get the former prince to walk faster.

         It was humiliating and painful, and Draco tried to pry the guard's fingers open so that he released his hair, all the while cursing and protesting his innocence. The guard, of course, did not let go, only yanked all the more until Draco let himself be dragged along silently, stumbling down a flight of stairs, his vision blurry and heat on his cheeks, his scalp throbbing. Distantly, he was aware of the sound of fighting around him stopping to be replaced by silent talking, surprise audible in the different voices. Draco closed his eyes, fighting a sob as he realized they had entered the courtyard and what seemed to be all of Potter's lieutenants were witnessing his humiliation first hand.

         Next to him, the guard called Potter's name, and Draco was flung forwards, falling yet again, hands and knees connecting painfully with the hard ground, strands of his hair ripping from his scalp where they'd been stuck in the joints of the guard's metal gloves.

         Silence fell abruptly, only broken as the guard's smug voice seemed to tell Potter that his little slave had been spying and was caught red-handed.

         Draco hung his head, shaking it softly, already seeing it roll in his mind's eye. Even if he could speak Teuton, he was sure no one would listen to his explanation. A sob was trying to fight its way out of his chest, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, clenching his teeth around the unwelcome sound.

         There was no answer coming forth from Potter, and nobody spoke until eventually, heavy boots scraped over the sun-baked sand of the courtyard, drawing closer and finally entering Draco's line of vision. He did not raise his head.

         Potter crouched down before him, both hands pushing beneath Draco's arms to pull him to his feet, surprisingly gentle. He did not let go when they both stood, only slipped his left arm lower until it was slung around Draco's waist, hand spreading at the small of his back in support. With the fingers of his other hand, he tipped Draco's chin up, and Draco recoiled when he saw Potter's face—eyes blazing with fury, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, his expression in absolute contrast to his gentle touch.

         Potter's hand around his middle stopped him, and for a moment, Potter's mien softened, his voice low and gentle as he hushed Draco, thumb of his left hand drawing soothing circles into Draco's back. Draco let him, burying his hatred deep in the back of his mind for just these few moments, allowing to be reassured and held.

         He was tired, thirsty and hungry, and ached everywhere. His hands and knees and scalp throbbed with pain, his legs shook beneath the weight of his trembling body. Only the last remaining shreds of his dignity stopped him from burying his face in the crook of Potter's neck and never come up again.

         Gingerly, Potter reached up and brushed Draco's hair out of his face to tug it behind his ears, hand curling around the back of Draco's head, thumb caressing his left cheekbone. It came back wet and Draco hated it.

         “All right?” Potter surprised Draco by asking in Elysian, lips forming the syllables awkward and slow, but Draco nodded, gratefully.

         “Hort?” he went on, brows furrowing as he shook his head and then corrected himself, “hurt?”

         Draco blushed and looked away, raising one of his scraped and dust-covered hands. He felt like a child running to its mother with a bloody knee, wailing like a banshee over the little injury, but he did not have the energy to act defiant and resist. Potter gently took his wrist and looked at the offered hand, prodding it carefully and making Draco hiss. He nodded, then, and turned towards the guard, his expression adopting once again the anger he'd shown before as he ordered, curt and sharp, “ _Wasser_!”

         The guard, bemused as he was, did not move, and Potter let go of Draco's hand to thrust his own at the guard with a pointed finger.

         “ _Wasser, jetzt_ ,” Potter repeated, his voice dropping to a low growl that made even Draco's hair stand on end and the guard spring into motion, all but running off in search of water. With another curt order, a servant appeared seemingly out of thin air, obediently listening to Potter's instructions before running off. Draco thought he'd heard Blaise' name and hoped that he'd sent for Draco's friend. He needed the support.

         Finally, Potter turned back to Draco, a concerned frown drawing his eyebrows together, and Draco thought he felt the arm around his waist tighten slightly, hand slipping from the small of Draco's back to his side, fingers curling around Draco's ribs, fitting in the space between them as if they were made for it.

         The thought made him shudder.

         When the guard returned with a skin of water, Potter took a small step back, taking each of Draco's hands in turn to clean them gently from dirt and dried blood, the cold water like a balm on the abused, heated and swollen palms. Then Potter held out his hand for a cloth someone had produced from somewhere, and carefully dried Draco's hands, even going as far as shooting Draco apologetic glances whenever he hissed or flinched.

         It was, frankly, confusing. Especially after Potter had avoided Draco like the plague for the last sennight. That, and the fact that the concern and gentleness with which Potter took care of him, together with the possessive touches, made Draco's head spin with confusing emotions warring from gratefulness to anger, and he was left standing speechless, letting Potter draw him in again with an arm around his waist, no protests coming from him as he was pressed into Potter's side.

         Potter turned them both so that they were standing in front of the lieutenants, which had formed a half circle around them while Draco had been distracted, all of them looking on in silence, waiting for their chief to speak to them.

         And Potter did.

 

Blaise nearly barrelled into a maid carrying a basket full of laundry, walking in the opposite direction, and he could only thank his quick reflexes for being able to dodge the girl in the last moment. Her surprised exclamation followed him down the corridor, but he did not stop, nor turn around to throw an apology over his shoulder. He'd left Richard, the servant who'd come to get him, long behind, taking off as fast as if the Emperor's armies where out for his blood as soon as Richard had gotten as far as stammering Potter's name and Elysian prince, and the words 'trouble' and 'training courtyard'.

         By the time he'd rounded the last corner and shoved out of the door leading into the courtyard, he was panting hard, dragging ragged breaths into his burning lungs, his calves protesting the abuse they'd been submitted to. He'd imagined the worst upon stumbling out of the door, had already seen a lithe, pale, delicate body laying on the ground, blood seeping into the dry earth, a halo of silvery hair stained with red.

         What he saw instead made him pause so abruptly that he nearly lost his footing.

         Before him, the heads of the companies were standing in a half circle around Potter, who had slung an arm around a confused and nervous Draco, behind them Weasley's towering form, hands on his hips and a glare on his face in a surprisingly good imitation of his scolding mother.

         Blaise stood, frozen for a moment, and stared. This—was certainly unexpected.

         “Take a look at this face and remember it,” Potter began and tore Blaise from his stupor. His voice carried over the courtyard without him having to shout, and it was deep and calm, but the lines on Potter's face were hard, disapproving.

         “Draco Malfoy is not to be touched. By no one. I trust you to let your soldiers know, because from now on, whoever dares to lay a hand on this man, will be punished. Severely.”

         As Blaise walked closer, he saw Potter's thumb rubbing circles onto Draco's side, seemingly unconsciously. Interesting.

         “This man is not my slave, he is not my prisoner. He is not a spy. It is true that he has been given to me by his Father, King Lucius of Elysia—“ Potter spat the title and name like it was something disgusting “—as a token of his remorse. We are not the barbarians the Emperor makes us out to be, and this is the chance to prove it. We are not going to make a boy pay for his father's sins. Understood?”

         The answer was a chorus of 'yes, m'Lord's, differing in enthusiasm and volume, but the anger and threat on Potter's face would be enough to discourage any man with bad intentions. At least, so Blaise hoped.

         With a last nod, Potter turned from the group of men and exchanged quiet words with Weasley, who nodded and shot Draco a glance, that, to Blaise' bemusement, seemed to carry a small amount of concern. He caught Potter's eye through a gap between the row of men and Potter nodded, than jerked his head towards a door leading to the insides of the castle, guiding Draco along with him as he started to move towards it, Blaise falling in behind them.

         This was certainly an interesting development, the servant thought as he followed the two unlikely men, dark eyes trailing time and again to the hand now resting on Draco's shoulder, thumb still moving in soothing circles.

 

Draco let himself be steered through the castle by Potter's hand on his shoulder, his body still pressed against the warrior's side. He had not understood one word of the war chief's speech but the name of his father, yet the way Potter had not let go of him, his hand not restraining but rather feeling like a protective barrier between him and the Teuto men around them, had Draco thinking that a warning had been spoken. A warning, it seemed, not against him, but Potter's men.

         This was all too much.

         For over a month, Potter had acted as if Draco did not exist, avoided him like he was infected with pox, even ignored him, and now he'd stood in front of his men, a possessive arm slung around the man he'd treated like a waste of air until now.

         What, by the Gods and all their half-breed children, did Potter want?

         Could he not, like a normal person, decide what he wanted?

         With every moment he spent musing about Potter, Draco's irritation grew, anger seething silently in the pit of his stomach, heating his blood, and by the time they had reached the room Draco was condemned to share with the confusing, infuriating, irritating barbarian, he had reached a stage of silent fury. As soon as the door was closed behind them by Blaise, Draco tore away from Potter's side, whirling on him, forefinger of his chest pointing as he paced back and forth, words spilling from his lips regardless of the fact that Potter likely did not understand a thing.

         “Make up your mind, Potter,” Draco spat, finger stabbing the air between them. “First you look at me like I'm cattle at the market and put me with your whores, then you ignore me like a leper begging at your feet. You strip me of my family name and title and make me walk like vermin at the back of your posse. You keep me in your chambers and make me share your bed like your personal pleasure slave, but you do not touch me, and you dress me in fine robes and give me a servant, offering food suited for nobility. You let me walk free in your castle, but forbid me to leave its walls.

         “What. Am I?!”

         The last words burst from Draco's lips like a hysteric screech, and their echo seemed to ring in the following silence. Draco was panting hard, and in the corners of his eyes he could see Blaise staring at him, eyebrows raised in an expression that both seemed to congratulate and scold him for his courage. Potter on the other hand, looked mostly confused, but his eyes were slightly narrowed with disapproval over the shouting, and he said Blaise' name without turning towards him, ordering him to translate.

         Blaise did, his tone neutral, but his face still caught in the expression that told Draco he was an idiot—a courageous idiot, but an idiot no less. Draco ignored it and stared at Potter instead, watching as his face changed, several miens blurring together, so quickly did they change as Blaise went on, but Draco could make out confusion, something that looked suspiciously like guilt, determination, and finally, anger.

         Now it was Potter's turn to speak, and his voice was sharp, his shoulders tense and squared in a way that told Draco he would not accept any protests.

         “Your precious Emperor calls us barbarians, and you are more dim-witted than I thought when you believe it after the time you've spent here,” Blaise translated in the same neutral tone. “You accuse me of keeping you prisoner when your own father sold you out to save his own hide. We do not keep slaves, and neither do we make children pay for their parents' cruel deeds. I did not put you into a cell or the servants' quarters because I thought you were used to a certain standard of living, and I have to keep you close to keep you from harm, but I will not abuse my position over you. You are in the headquarters of the revolution, amidst your father's enemies, a lot of men hold a grudge against your family here. Without my protection, you'd be long dead. Either take it or see what will happen without.”

         Potter had glared at Draco throughout all of Blaise' translation, his hands clenched to fists, fire in his narrowed eyes. Draco opened his mouth to retaliate, say something, anything, to get Potter off his high horse, but Blaise shook his head, and the words died on Draco's tongue. He slumped, the wind taken out of his sails, and his fatigue returned with a rush of vertigo, making him sway on his feet, only Potter's hand closing hard around his elbow sparing him from slipping to the ground. With a muttered order, Blaise was there to take Draco off Potter's hands, the servant's arms a comforting, familiar weight around his middle as he was gently tugged towards the bed and eased down onto it. He could hear Potter saying something quietly before there were receding footsteps and the click of the door opening and closing.

         The world seemed to slip away, darkening around him, as gentle hands carefully peeled his torn clothes away and helped him to lie down beneath the blanket, fingers combing the hair away from his face.

         “Sleep, Dragon,” Blaise' voice told him soothingly. “Tomorrow, we will scheme and plan cunningly, little Princeling. Until then, sleep.”

         So Draco did.


	5. quīnque

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _gamin_ — (French) boy/child  
>  _Dame de Neige et de Glace_ — (French) Lady of Snow and Ice
> 
> Sorry the update took me so long, but I wasn't happy with this chapter for a very long time and had to find a way to change it.  
> Anyway, hope you like it more than I still do. ^^

 

 

# V

Draco woke early, at the beginning of sunrise, and watched as the world behind the windows turned from grey to red and orange, finally blue, while Grimmauld City woke up around him, the first sounds of the city drifting into the room.

         Blaise came shortly after sunrise, a huge grin on his face, hands holding the breakfast platters as he announced that he had plans for today, which, to Draco's annoyance, he refused to give up, instead saying it was a surprise, and little princelings should take baths so that the servants could do their work. Draco, glaring, did as he was told, protesting loudly, and hid his smile behind the closed door to the bath chamber. Blaise was whistling a merry tune when he finally came to bring the hot water, and departed with the order to hurry.

         Just to spite him, Draco made sure to remain in the tub until his skin was wrinkled and the water cold. When he finally emerged, dressed and with his hair neatly parted and combed, Blaise was tapping his foot, holding a small basket with grapes, apples, butter and bread, telling Draco he had wasted too much time and now had to eat elsewhere.

         The former prince made to protest, but the servant cut him off and simply took Draco's wrist, dragging him out of the door and away through the corridors, ignoring Draco's demands to know where he was brought until Draco gave up and started sulking, dragging his feet.

         “Now, now, Princeling, don't do that,” Blaise said cheerily. “I promise you as soon as I've let you in on my cunning plan, your mood will brighten!”

         “You are awfully full of yourself today, Blaise,” Draco remarked scathingly, but stopped dragging his feet and sped up his steps. Blaise only laughed and walked on, only stopping when they had arrived at the stone gargoyle and the almost hidden door next to it. Ushering Draco through it, Blaise quickly followed, nearly bumping into the other when Draco stopped abruptly, staring ahead.

         “Blaise,” Draco said through his teeth. “Would you care to explain why there's a whore here?”

         The woman sitting on the ground at his feet laughed, a high, pleasant sound like the jingling of bells, red painted lips parting.

         “You were right, Blaise,” she said, a sweet purr of immaculate Elysian. “He is extraordinarily sweet.”

         Draco glared, Blaise grinned and put his hands on Draco's shoulder, pushing him down relentlessly to sit with the woman before he joined them.

         “This,” he said, “is Daphne, a, ah, _friend_ of mine that has agreed to help us.”

         “With what?” Draco asked sharply, turning towards his friend. “What can a whore help us with?”

         Blaise made as if to speak, but Daphne was faster, reaching out for Draco with one delicate hand, sweet, flowery perfume filling his nostrils as she rested her fingers against his jaw and turned his head towards her. “Now, my sweet, innocent Prince. What exactly do you think a whore can teach you, hm?”

         Draco's eyes widened and his mouth opened, then closed like a fish's, making him look rather undignified, and Blaise put one hand on his shoulder, his voice gentle as he said, “listen first to my plan, Draco. Do not make rash decisions, this will help you with Potter.”

         “Your plans?” Draco spat. “What is your plan then, Blaise? Letting her teach me how to suck Potter's cock? How to spread my legs for him?”

         Daphne laughed again, making Draco turn his head so quickly that he thought he might get whiplash. With one ring-decorated hand, she flicked her long, dark blonde hair back over her shoulder, her smile predatory.

         “Such crude words,” she mocked and ignored the anger on Draco's face as she went on. “I have been told of your fate, my Prince, and I offer you my help to make the best of your situation. If you accept is your decision, but,” she leaned in, her voice dropping low as if she was sharing a secret with him, her blue eyes wicked. “Sex, sweet Draco, _is power_. If you cannot rule the realm, rule the men, and what better way than this? Look at me,” she said and indicated the whole of her self with a sweeping motion, letting Draco take in her revealing, but nonetheless fine clothing, made from deftly woven cloth and decorated with silver threat along the seams, the heavy jewellery dangling from her ears and decorating her neck—made of gold, not copper.

         “In Elysia, I had nothing. Fourth daughter of a farmer, destined to be married off to the highest bidder. But I wanted more. I saw your mother, once, and she was beautiful. I saw the fine dresses she wore and the heavy jewellery adorning her, and I wanted to be like her. I wanted to make men and women alike turn their heads to look at me and stare in awe,” her eyes seemed far away now, dark blue and hazy, and Draco understood. He saw his mother before his own eyes, gliding through the halls of their home, beautiful and regal, and even in beggar's rags she would have kept her marvellous appearance. Surely, there was no woman who did not want to be like her. His chest contracted, and he felt a sting of worry and grief.

         “Here in Teuto, we Elysians are a rarity,” Daphne said and brought Draco back to the present. She reached for him, long fingers winding silvery strands of hair around themselves. “Men will pay a handsome price to own this foreign beauty for an hour. They pay a lot for my time, they'd pay twice as much for yours.”

         Her skin was slightly darker than his, her hair the shade of rye before it's harvested. She was pretty, even for Elysian standards. Her face was slightly longer than the Teuto women's, her bone structure more delicate, her eyes bigger and the colour of the sky on a warm summer day. A white dove in the midst of crows. Of course the Teutos would pay a lot to have her.

         Draco furrowed his brows. “So you say I should become a whore,” he not quite asked, incredulously, and she laughed, shaking her head.

         “No, no, Ice Prince. You will not have to go that far. From what I've heard, our fearless War Chief of the Order is quite taken with your Elysian beauty. If you make use of it the right way, he will be like clay in your hands, easy to shape to your needs.”

         Wicked and sharp was her smile, and Draco blushed, despite himself, turning towards Blaise.

         “You want me to seduce Potter,” he choked out, disbelieving, and Blaise' grin was Daphne's smirk's twin.

         “No man is easier to manipulate than the one sated and full of bliss after sex,” Daphne said and licked her lips like the cat that got the canary.

 

 

Daphne, Draco soon discovered, was a strict tutor. She had high expectations of her student and did not hesitate to enforce them if said student took too long to do as she expected.

         “No, _gamin_ , not like this,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “You are still brooding. Do not stomp, you do not weigh a ton. Glide, tread, like a cat, full of grace and _silent_.”

         Draco grimaced and rolled his shoulders, listening as something popped silently in his back.

         “But I _am_ gliding, don't you see?” He crossed the little garden in wide strides, his posture straight, chin raised a bit, shoulders drawn back to puff out his chest. Daphne tutted and shook her head, swatting at his chest with her hand fan. “Now you strut, Princeling!”

         Draco threw his hands up in exasperation and cried, “what is the difference!”

         From his position at the apple tree's roots, Blaise snickered, trying to cover it up with a cough when the former prince glared at him. Daphne's fan patted against his cheek.

         “No distractions! A man wants to be the centre of your attention, always. You will only have eyes for him. Men want to feel like they are on a pedestal, they want to feel greater than they are. I am Potter, for now, and so far you have not done much to earn my attention. Again!”

         Draco glowered at her, but did as he was told, straightening his spine and trying to remember what Daphne had told him. Blue eyes were attentively following his every move, flickering from his face to his chest, eyebrows furrowing whenever she was not satisfied with what she saw.

 _Do not raise your chin that high,_ gamin, _there is nothing for you to be that proud of_.

 _You do have a nice chest, but you must not thrust it out that much_.

_Shoulders, Princeling, are you carrying invisible weights with you? No? Then why do you slump like this?_

         Taking a deep breath, Draco straightened his posture, pulling his shoulders back the tiniest bit, tipping his chin up slightly, his eyes half-lidded, fingers twining with each other at the height of his abdomen. He took a first step, feet gently treading, the swish of his robes brushing over the grass the only sound as he made his way across the small garden, a soft smile playing around his lips. When he had reached the door, he turned, cocking his head to the side to bare the curve of his neck, and when he spoke his voice was a soft, melodic purr, “was this to your liking, my Lady?”

         Daphne chuckled softly, clapping her hands once in excitement.

         “Splendid,” she said, her mien smug. “Now remember this and you will have our War Chief eating out of your palm in no time. What do you say, Blaise?”

         Both turned to look at the servant and found him staring at Draco with glazed eyes, lips parted, tip of a pink tongue licking quickly over his plump bottom lip.

         “Blaise,” Daphne repeated, amused, and startled the man out of his apparent trance.

         “I—yes, yes—very good, Draco,” he stuttered and licked his lips again and swallowed, blinking twice quickly as if he had to clear his sight. “Very good.”

         Draco smirked and relaxed his posture, earning a slap to the stomach for it with Daphne's fan. “You do not take breaks from this,” she scolded him. “It has to become your second nature—standing, sitting, walking and speaking as I teach you. There will always be eyes on you, you will turn heads even when you try your best to be invisible. You are a diamond in the midst of a pile of coal. Shine, always.”

         Blushing, Draco averted his eyes, digging the toe of his right slipper into the ground, head hanging slightly.

         “Adorable,” Daphne said with a smirk, and Draco's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Your virginity is so obvious you might as well have it written on your forehead. Men do like virgins,” she commented thoughtfully, completely ignoring the blond man's deepening frown. “They love being the first to claim, however—“ her face sobered “—it won't do forever.”

         “And what do you suggest? Changing my act from virginal to that of a whore in a day's time?” Draco scoffed.

         “Not that quickly, no, but we will get to that later. Now, you will undress.”

         Draco's jaw dropped with his disbelief, his eyes widening comically, and Daphne pushed his mouth closed again with her fan beneath his chin, clicking her tongue. “My sweet, sweet Princeling, there is neither time nor room for modesty. You had better get used to dropping all these layers now.”

         Her pale fingers rose while she spoke, her eyes never letting go of Draco's as she set her fingertips against the lacing at the front of her dress, pulling free the bow holding it together, the thin lace slipping from hole after hole, the burgundy outer dress parting to reveal her white underdress inch by inch. She did it slowly, tantalizing with the promise of naked skin, hands spreading and slipping over the still covered curves of her breasts as she parted the outer dress and pushed it from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet.

         Her voice was a low, seductive whisper as she continued, “undressing is an art, it can be part of the seduction as much as touch.”

         White cloth, sliding down to reveal expanses of almost as light skin.

         Draco cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from the jut of a collarbone. “I find that hard to believe.”

         “Do you, now,” she said, unperturbed, one eyebrow arching. “And is not the red colour on your cheeks and the warmth spreading in your stomach enough to prove the opposite?”

         The white underdress joined burgundy cloth on the ground and Daphne stepped over the ring of fabric, crossing the distance between her and Draco in a few strides, her hips swaying from side to side, perfectly rounded breasts bobbing with each step, rose nipples hardening in the cool breeze. He could not help but stare, could not help his eyes following the curve of her breasts, her waist, the jut of a hipbone, to end up at the patch of dark blond curls between pale thighs.

         Lips the colour of ripe strawberries, spreading in a sultry smile as delicate fingers slipped beneath Draco's collar at the back of his neck, tickling soft strands of hair and pulling him down until their breaths mingled, faces merely inches from one another.

         “You can feel it, yes?” she breathed against his lips. “The heat running through your veins like a fire burning, blood rushing south, flesh hardening, sweet lust speeding up your heart. The hunger in your chest, like a beast roaring to be sated.”

         And yes, he could. His body was _singing_ —currents of electricity rippling up and down his spine, the fine hairs on his skin standing on end, goosebumps spreading, his heart beating an erratic rhythm against the confines of his chest. His throat was dry, a lump clogging it, and it would not budge even when he swallowed against it.

         He _wanted_.

         Wanted to touch, to be touched, wanted fingers and lips all over his skin, wanted to feel heat, sweet caresses, wanted to taste skin and sweat and spit.

         Wanted to lose himself in pleasure.

         Daphne's fingertips were burning brands against his skin, even through the fabric of his clothes when her hands slipped from his nape to his shoulders, finally to his chest to rest against the silver clasps at the front of his robes.

         “It is your turn now, Ice Prince.”

 

 

 

Draco could not sleep. His skin was too sensitive, too hot, every brush of the blankets sending electricity through his body, making his toes curl and his fingers tear at the sheets. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears, his heart going a mile a minute, a sheen of sweat covering his skin. A gentle breeze blew in through the open windows, yet it did nothing against the heat burning in his body. On the inside of his eyelids he could still see a pale body, skin smooth and soft, delicious curves of breasts and hips and waist.

         His hips bucked, seeking friction against nothing, and he whimpered, turning onto his stomach, gasping when his painfully hard cock rubbed against the soft sheets. Eyes firmly closed, he pushed his hips down into the mattress, stifling a needy groan by biting into his pillow. He imagined delicate hands, holding on to his shoulders, a soft body beneath him, broken groans falling from red lips, nails dragging over heated skin.

         His hips sped up, thrusting harder, fingers digging in and clutching at the pillows, pleasure rolling in waves through his body, pushing him higher and higher, towards the precipice.

         Flashes of tanned arms, skin broken by criss-crossing silvery scars, muscles shifting beneath as they wind around his middle, holding on tightly. A flat chest, glistening with sweat, dark, curly hair clinging to skin with moisture. Calloused hands, holding his hips in a bruising grip as something blunt and hot split him open, pushing deep and—

         He came with a hoarse cry, sticky wetness staining the sheets beneath his hips, his body shuddering, hips bucking as he rode out his climax.

         Finally, his heart calmed, slowly adopting a normal rhythm again, his chest heaving with deep breaths, his eyelids drooping. With a last effort, Draco rolled onto his side, darkness closing in from the edges of his vision, and he slept.

 

 

When Blaise came to bring breakfast the next morning, he found Draco sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring at mid distance, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He blinked a few times before his gaze finally focused on the servant, who had come over to see if everything was in order.

         “I see your eyes are open, but I cannot help but think you are still asleep,” Blaise said and pressed the back of his hand against Draco's pale forehead to see if a fever was responsible for the man's glazed eyes. Draco narrowed his eyes and turned his head away, swatting at Blaise' hand.

         “I am not sick, Blaise,” he ground out and struggled with the sheets for a moment before he climbed off the bed, running fingers through his hair in agitation, pacing back and forth.

         “I was thinking.”

         Blaise leaned back against the closest bedpost, arms crossed over his chest as he waited for Draco to continue. After a few moments, Draco did.

         “Potter wanted me dead,” he said and whirled around, nightgown swishing around his ankles, an accusing finger stabbing at the servant's chest over his crossed arms. “He wanted my head, without even knowing so much as my given name. No, the name of my father was enough to judge and condemn me, and only my father's wit saved me that day.”

         Blaise inclined his head softly, but Draco was no longer looking at him, staring at something behind Blaise, something out of reach and far away—lost. His chest was heaving with his strained, ragged breaths, and his palms were clammy with cold sweat.

         “He did not even know my name,” Draco repeated, in a hoarse whisper, before he remembered himself and took a step back, straightening, hands brushing restlessly over the folds of his simple robe. At once his face lost its stricken expression, smoothing out before turning into a pinched grimace of displeasure. He sniffed and went on, “not that I care if Potter knows my name or not, he means no more to me than the dirt sticking to the heels of my boots. So how am I supposed to seduce him?!”

         His voice rose with his last words, and he threw his hands up in exasperation.

         “I would not be able to bear his touch,” Draco added and turned away from Blaise. There was no heat rising in his cheeks at the lie, but images of the evening before pushed to the front of his mind, and he saw himself rutting against the mattress like an animal, growling and biting and tearing at the sheets, eyes rolling back into his skull as he climaxed to the fantasy of strong, calloused hands digging their fingertips into his flesh and the phantom sensation of blunt, hard heat splitting him open.

         He forced the thought away, biting the tip of his tongue until it stung.

         Blaise' hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing once to get his attention, and when Draco looked back at his friend, he saw a knowing smile curling the corners of his lips. With his other hand, Blaise gripped Draco's chin, tipping his head slightly back and holding it in place to stop him from breaking the gaze.

         “It is the truth,” he said silently, eyes flickering from one silver coloured iris of Draco's to the other, searching. “Potter nearly did take your life. However, I am not blind, Princeling. I saw you lean into his touch—don't fret now,” he added as Draco's face twisted into a glare and his mouth opened to object. Blaise quickly clasped a hand over the other's mouth to silence him. “Shush, let me finish.”

         Draco sighed, but did not relax his posture in the least. It seemed to be enough for Blaise nevertheless for he went on, “there is no shame in desiring a man as him. A warrior, muscled and rough, strong enough to hold you up while he ravishes you against a wall with your legs wrapped around his middle.”

         Blaise chuckled, deep and throaty, as he watched Draco blink against the images conjured by his treacherous mind, painting Blaise' words in endless, delicious details. Leaning in, Blaise brought his mouth to Draco's ear, lips almost brushing over the shell, sending shivers down Draco's spine towards his groin, as hot breath puffed against sensitive flesh.

         “Desire is not bound to love only, Princeling. It can be quite the opposite in fact. Sex with a side of hate is a heady thing; rough and delicious, a fight for pleasure.”

         Draco's throat and mouth were dry, and when he swallowed, he did so with an audible click. Blaise' hand lingered for a moment longer before it withdrew, allowing Draco to pull in air, and to his irritation, Draco's voice cracked slightly when he spoke, “are you trying to seduce me now?”

         Blaise grinned and took a step back, bringing some distance between them. “No, though the idea does not strike me as completely bad.”

         His eyes roamed Draco's form, and one corner of his mouth twitched. Draco raised one of his brows and crossed his arms over his chest, challenging.

         “Calm down, I would not dare,” Blaise said and laughed before his face sobered slightly, only a mischievous glint dancing in his dark eyes giving him away. “However, I wanted to give you a small taste of what could be. Spur your imagination so to speak. Think about winning the fight, Princeling, reducing the high and mighty, self-righteous and oh so perfect War Chief of the Order to a quivering mess, shattering underneath you to smithereens, your hands breaking him before you piece him back together to your liking.”

         Blaise' face was dark, his eyes holding a wildness they had never shown before. His right hand rose to the height of his chest, cupping nothing but air.

         “Imagine holding his heart in your hands. It would be so easy to manipulate him, with a pinch here or there. Or—“

         His fingers curled into his palms, the fist clenched tightly. “So easy to crush him.”

         Draco released the breath he had been holding, his lungs burning in his chest to each side of his thundering heart. Excitement had him strung taut like a bowstring, and he feared if he trembled any harder, he would shake himself apart.

         “Your mind, my friend,” he said after what felt like half an eternity. “Is a delightfully wicked thing.”

         A startled laugh tore away from Blaise' chest and he clasped a hand around Draco's shoulder before leading him towards the table for breakfast.

         “I am glad you think so, Princeling. Now eat, Daphne has more lessons planned for you.”

 

 

Grimmauld City was hot, loud and disgusting, even more so on his second trip there. The air was too dry, and the smells were nauseating, enhanced by the heat. Draco cleared his throat, tugging his hood further into his face. He was feeling hot beneath the linen clothes he was wearing, and the rough fabric scratched uncomfortably against his skin. This all did not help to improve his mood.

         Ahead of him, Blaise was strutting through the winding streets like he was the Emperor himself, smirking broadly, leaning over the merchants' booths to chat and bicker, bargaining good-naturedly over one price or other, picking out fruits and vegetables for the kitchens, and fine cloths for the seamstresses.

         Draco was following in his shadow, his glare shooting daggers at the back of Blaise' head.

         This morning, the servant had come to him and promised a day of fun, but so far, Draco felt none of it. His feet were aching and his neck was sticky with sweat, but he could not take off the hood; for one, because Blaise had kept on insisting he would stand out like a sore thumb and draw too much attention, and secondly, to avoid burning the skin of his face again. It was plausible, but that made the whole ordeal no less irritating.

         “Blaise,” Draco hissed as he sidestepped another beggar reaching out for the seams of his trousers. “Blaise!”

         “Hush, Princeling,” the servant threw over his shoulder and then turned to look after a group of wenches walking past, the women giggling behind their work-rough hands, blushing sweetly as the handsome man winked at them. He waited until the girls had turned a corner and disappeared from sight until he continued, “enjoy these moments of freedom, little Dragon, take a deep breath and smell it!”

         As if to show him, Blaise inhaled deeply, tipping his head back with a broad smile curling his lips, his arms spread. Draco wrinkled his nose and huffed in disgust, pressing up against the side of a house as a ragged man, stinking like the tavern he'd just come stumbling out of, shoved past him.

         “If this is freedom, I'd rather return to my cage,” he commented and let himself be dragged along by his elbow, Blaise walking with a spring to his step.

         “You wound my poor Teuto heart,” he said, his smile betraying the words. Draco scoffed, stumbling after him and nearly slipping in the mud of a puddle of dubious origins.

         “You are as Teuto as I am,” he remarked, voice oozing sarcasm, and Blaise laughed. They ducked through an archway, and Draco found himself on a bazar of some kind. To each of his sides there were booths, squeezed into the narrow street, some overflowing with fabrics of different kinds, silk and wool and linen, woven with wonderful patterns, stylized flowers, swirling ornaments. Other stalls were selling spices, powders of different, vibrant colours, tangy and sweet smells filling his nostrils.

         Draco stared, fascinated, at the different goods offered, one of his hands caressing a bundle of emerald cloth with golden ornaments woven into the silk. It was beautiful, the main colour rich and perfect, the pattern skilfully woven, fitting for even a king's clothes, the fabric cool and soft against his fingertips.

         Pulling one of his sleeves up, he held his arm against the bundle, imagining how it would look on him, the dark green in contrast to his pale skin. He could already see it; the cut simple, the skirt wide, golden clasps holding the front together, a simple round collar, the seam stitched with gold threat, long sleeves, wide around the wrists. It would look magnificent. Draco was so lost in his thoughts he did not notice the man walking up to him.

         Without warning, a hand closed around his wrist and Draco whipped his head around, trying to tug his hand free. He found himself looking at a familiar tanned face, green eyes gazing back at him from behind smudged spectacles. Draco froze, his breath hitching as his mind ran through every possible consequence this chance meeting could have for him, his mind's eye already painting gruesome pictures of barred doors closing in front of his face, cold stone walls all around him, mouldy straw beneath his feet, the stench of faeces clogging his nostrils.

         Potter's fingers were hot around his wrist, pressing down against his pulse, and Draco was not sure if he wanted to break free of them or relax into the touch, his mind caught in this moment of fight or flight. His lips formed silent words, half thought-out excuses Potter would not understand anyway, that got stuck in his throat, tangling with the lump there.

         And then, Potter smiled.

         It was a small, hesitant thing, barely there, a tiny curl of the corners of his lips.

         It should not have this kind of effect on Draco. Warmth spread in the depths of his stomach, his breath rushed from his lungs, his heart sped up even more. His skin burned where it was touched by Potter's, a tingling feeling travelling up his arm, making the fine hairs stand on end.

         Without breaking Draco's gaze, Potter reached for the bundle of cloth, saying something in Teuton before he withdrew a small pouch that tinkled with the coins it carried when he threw it before the merchant. He only let go of Draco's wrist to pick up the whole bundle, holding it with one hand, the other curling around Draco's elbow to tug him along after him.

         “Blaise,” the blond man finally choked out, and Potter stopped, pointing at a stall selling spices. The servant stood before it, a sheepish, almost apologetic grimace on his face as he waved, and Draco wished he had something to throw at hand, but then he felt a tug at his arm and was dragged on, having to hold his hood in place as he stumbled after the War Chief of the Order of the Phoenix towards the castle.

 

 

Draco could still feel Potter's skin on his, even when he'd long let go. They were back in the castle, in Potter's room, sitting at the small table, eating the lunch Molly Weasley had sent up for them. The silence was oppressing, the voices and sounds of the city drifting in through the window not enough to lessen the tension. Every scratch of a knife on the platters loud and screeching, every clearing of a throat like thunder.

         Draco kept his eyes determinedly on the food in front of him, startling when Potter finally spoke.

         “Good?” he asked with a concentrated frown, and Draco nearly dropped his cutlery. He nodded, and then frowned himself, taking a deep breath before awkwardly answering, “ _ja_.”

         Potter looked surprised, but then the smile returned, broader this time, showing off his teeth. It was a genuine, wide smile, warm and almost fond, and Draco felt a hot spark of anger in his chest. How dare he, Draco thought, how dare he sit here and smile at him like this, so innocently and sweet, when he would have seen Draco's head next to his parents' on the muddy ground of Malfoy Castle's courtyard. He had half the mind to grip his knife and stab it through Potters hand, pinning it to the table's surface, but before he could do as much as curl his hand around the handle, Blaise' words echoed in his head, and he blinked against the red mist of fury obscuring his vision.

 _Hold his heart in your hand and it will be easy to crush it_ , Blaise had said, and now Draco imagined it, holding all this power, making the smile drop from Potter's lips with only one word of Draco's, getting him to plead for Draco's attention like a beggar for food. At this, his lips tugging into a smile all on their own, and for a moment, they sat like this, smiling at each other over the plates filled with delicious dinner, gazes locked, his heart thundering in Draco's chest and now almost familiar warmth spreading in his stomach.

         Daphne's lessons did him well, he found out when he lowered his lids slightly and dipped his head to the side, baring the column of his pale throat like an offering. Immediately, Potters eyes flickered towards the smooth, pale skin of Draco's neck, hunger darkening his eyes, the tip of a pink tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. Draco knew he had to be careful now, for would he act too brash and obvious, Potter would surely become aware of his scheme and withdraw.

         Slowly, he raised his eyes again and locked gazes with Potter once more, letting his smile play softly around his lips.

         A knock at the door interrupted them, and they both flinched, the moment broken beyond repair. For now.

         Potter cleared his throat before he called the person in and a head covered in bushy curls pushed through the gap, Granger blinking at them for a moment, surprise on her face.

         “Oh,” she said, and then added something in Teuton before turning towards Draco, telling him, “I am sorry to interrupt, I did not know you were having lunch together.”

         Her smile was hesitant, yet—to Draco's bewilderment—genuine and Draco nodded, laying his cutlery down and taking the folded napkin from his lap. “It is quite all right. I was finished anyway.”

         Rising from his chair, he brushed invisible crumbs from his clothes and said, “I shall leave you to it.”

         Granger exchanged a glance with Potter, who was silently looking between the two of them, eyebrows slightly raised.

         “It is really no problem, I can come back later,” the sorceress assured and then frowned, contemplating, as she stepped fully into the room and pushed the door closed behind her. “Actually, Draco, maybe you could help.”

         Draco, who had been already making his way over to the door, stopped abruptly, staring at her as if she had just suggested giving him to the dragons as their dinner, and he repeated incredulously, “help? With what?”

         Her smile was almost smug now and she quickly crossed the distance between them, dragging a bemused Draco along as she made her way over towards the desk, which was still littered with parchment. She got rid of it by unceremoniously shoving it to the side, ordering Potter over with a quick call over her shoulder.

         “You see,” she began almost cheerily, “we are having troubles with Elysia. Your people are unhappy with the governor we have chosen. They are asking to have your parents return, but we can't do that, for given reasons.” Her voice trailed off, and Draco's hands curled to fists at his sides. He swallowed down the retort just as Granger slapped a hand over her own mouth, her eyes widening.

         “Oh. _Oh_ , I am sorry, Draco, truly, I didn't think! Sometimes my mouth just runs off with me!”

         He cut her off with a raised hand, hoping they did not see it shaking. Granger stared at him for a moment longer, awkwardly clearing her throat before she turned back towards the parchment she had brought with her.

         “As I was saying,” she continued hesitantly and with far less enthusiasm. “your people need a ruler, but they aren't satisfied with the one we have appointed. We offered them to vote for a man or woman of their choice for the position, but they declined.” Taking a deep breath, Granger turned towards Draco, her eyes imploring.

         “Maybe you could tell us how to resolve this so that your home is no longer without a ruler.”

 _Home_. The word cut him deeper than he would have thought, and Draco had to fold his hands behind his back, squeezing them hard to stop them from trembling. He took several deep breaths before he finally felt able to speak without his voice quivering.

         “It does not surprise me,” he commented, eyes roaming the map at the desk in front of him, following the black lines of the letters spelling out _Elysia_ , Havan marked with a small sketch of the city, walls surrounding the stylized Malfoy Castle at its centre. He traced the black lines with the fingertip of his right hand, sounding pensive as he said, “my people are creatures of habit. It has proven itself useful in our lands of winter. They will not see a foreigner sit on the throne of my forefathers without protest.”

         Granger wrinkled her nose in distaste, saying, “isn't that a rather ancient way of thinking?”

         Draco chuckled without humour, fingers slipping towards the drawing of Neigefallé, the Elysian goddess of winter, where she was sitting on her throne in the corner of the map, her sceptre of ice in her hand, her crown of snow resting on her head.

         “One might think so,” he told Granger, not looking away from the goddess' mask-like face. “Our people called my mother _Dame de Neige et de Glace_. It sounds like something bad, harsh even, but it was the opposite, in fact. Elysian winters are merciless and deadly. They are long and dark and bring wolves to our doorsteps. A ruler of Elysia should know their greatest enemy, for Neigefallé is a cruel mistress,” he said and finally looked up, at Granger and Potter, who were both looking back at him. Granger with an attentive expression, Potter simply seemed to stare, unable to understand Draco's words.

         “Here in Teuto, it does not even rain.” Draco gestured towards the open windows, a light blue sky visible through them. “The sun seems to always be shining here. These lands have never been touched by snow, so how should Elysia trust your governor to understand our winter.”

         Granger worried her bottom lip, bending over the desk and looking at the map, fingertips following the lines of the mountain range north of Havan.

         “But why don't they elect a ruler from their own rows? After all, they should know best, then.”

         “And become a target? No, my people are perfectly confident with keeping the blame away from themselves. There is a war raging in Taress, and it has not been long since they saw their king and queen fall from grace. Now they have your protection, you say, but Elysia is far away. Not one of them wants to sit on the throne should the Emperor decide he wants the Winterlands back.”

         “What do you propose then?” Granger asked, fingers tapping a rhythm against the desk as she waited for his answer. Draco shrugged, nonchalantly, yet his heart was beating restlessly in his chest, his stomach in knots.

         “Keep the governor you have appointed, but give him an adviser, one who understands the lands and people of Elysia. That way you can make sure you will not lose control over the kingdom, and the people's needs are met.”

         “And who would you suggest for that position of an adviser? Your father did not have a council, and as you told us, none of your people would accept a position like this.”

         Draco allowed himself a small smirk, his fingers returning to the drawing of Neigefallé as he picked his next words.

         “You have a saying, here; 'fight fire with fire', yes? In Elysia we say 'To defeat the snow, one must become ice'. So what better adviser than the woman they call the Lady of Snow _and_ Ice?”

         With these words, he tapped twice against the drawing of the goddess, watching the idea penetrate Granger's mind, spreading roots to settle as she parted her lips and rolled here eyes towards the ceiling in a contemplative expression, and internally, the former prince congratulated himself on his cunning wit.


	6. sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took me so damn long, but as I've said in the comments from the last chapter, this chapter was deleted on accident, and after I cried my eyes out for days, I rewrote it, wasn't happy, and then rewrote it again from scratch. Now I'm happy again!  
> So, here's chapter sex, in which you get... um, sex. Yay me! (No, for real, I wrote some smut for you lovelies.)
> 
>  _Merde!_ — (French) Shit!

# VI

_The White One was near. She could feel it in every fibre of her being, heard the call, the melody, sweet and sad, familiar, reaching out towards her. She felt the White One's pain vibrating through her bones, shared his sadness, his longing, his grief, could taste his confusion on her tongue, thick and cloying, could feel the itch of his instincts to fly beneath her scales, persistent and irritating._

_She called for him in turn, asked him to come and join her so they could spread their wings and fly together, so that he could take his destined place at her and her sisters' sides. But her song fell on deaf ears, for he did not come._

_It had already been so long, and she and her sisters were restless._

_They could see him in their minds' eye, see his form, so fragile and small. The White One was lost here, and inside him, feelings raged like a brewing thunderstorm, dark and painful and suffocating, growing with each passing of the sun. They could sooth him, she knew, could wrap him in their wings and take him to the sky, let him join their nightly dances, and give him the home he longed for._

_But he did not come._

_He did not hear them, and it pained her, made her wail and mourn the loss of something that not yet had been._

_And so she sat and waited, seeking comfort in her sisters' presence and warmth, calling out for the White One._

* * *

 Draco's brooding was interrupted by a knock on the door, and he hastily scrambled off the bed to throw a robe over his half-nude form, calling out for the person to enter. He was expecting Blaise, since the servant had promised to return later, for he had important things to take care of today. Whatever was more important than spending time with Draco, he could not fathom, and he had already prepared a witty remark for the servant's return.

         However, it was not Blaise who greeted him from the other side of the door, but Granger's curls-framed visage, a hesitant smile showing off her buckteeth as she stepped over the threshold.

         “Good morning,” she said overly cheery as she strode towards the small table the remains of Draco's breakfast were still resting upon. Draco bit back a scathing remark about how every morning that began with the sight of her could not be called good, and instead settled for returning the sentiment as pleasantly as he could manage, “good morning to you too, Granger. To what do I owe this—ah—pleasure of your visit?”

         She shot him a sharp glance, no doubt having noticed the small pause, and he returned it evenly, unconsciously straightening his spine until she turned away and softly shook her head.

         “Well,” she went on and began stacking plates on one another to clear some room on the table which was quickly after occupied by several heavy tomes which she had brought with her. “I guess that was deserved. We did not meet on the best of terms.”

         Draco's eyes narrowed, for this was quite a mild way of putting it, after all, he'd nearly lost his head that day at their orders, and he had to grind his teeth to bite back the abuse he wanted to hurl at her bushy head, his nails digging into the palm of his hands as he curled them to fists.

         “Indeed,” he said finally, hoping she would not hear the tenseness his voice carried. He had to keep appearances, had to fall into line and scheme in the quiet. Angry accusations and insults were beneath him, he would leave that to the Teutos and their fiery temper.

         “I brought you something to read,” Granger went on as she sorted the stack of tomes into several piles. There was a tenseness to her shoulders that he hadn't seen before, and it betrayed her friendly tone, showed how uncomfortable she truly was. “I thought you might want a distraction whenever Blaise is not here.”

         Draco would like to tell her that he needed neither her charity, nor her pity, but he was too distracted by the different leather and cloth-bound books, his eyes tracing the different titles—some in Elysian, others in what must be Teuto—carved into the covers and spines.

         “What is this,” he asked and stepped closer, tracing one of the Elysian books with his fingertips before cracking it open to look at the illustration on the first page, showing Neigefallé with her spear of ice, standing above Ététit, God of Summer, who lay curled at her feet, clutching the bleeding wound in his side. Draco recognized the book, had seen it often, for it was a book about his home's sagas and legends, many of the stories within telling of the Winter Goddess' victory over the other seasons' Gods, and other tales recounting the hardships of ancient heroes. His mother had often read to him from this book, sitting at his bed in the evening, weaving images of knights defeating beasts and saving princesses from their maws with her words that had Draco declaring in youthful innocence that one day he would take up his father's sword and slay a barbarian king to marry the beautiful maiden the bearded savage had abducted. Mother had looked at him then, her smile soft and her eyes sparkling with amusement as she listened to him describing the fight in great detail.

         When Draco had asked if Father had saved her from a barbarian king as well, she'd laughed and shaken her head.

         “Your father,” she'd told him, “knows how to wield words better than any weapon forged from metal.”

         He had not understood her words back then, but now as he remembered, his lips curled into a wistful and slightly bitter smile. How right she had been.

         “Draco?”

         He looked up to find Granger gazing back at him, worrying her bottom lip, and he almost told her how unbecoming it was for a woman of her status, but bit the words back, instead raised his brows in inquiry. Granger cast a quick glance at the book he was still holding, fingers skirting over the bottom edge of the drawing of Elysia's merciless mistress one last time before he put it back.

         “I thought you might like the book,” Granger admitted finally, gently, with a soft rose blush tinting her cheeks. “To help you with the homesickness.”

         Draco was so surprised he almost physically recoiled, but caught himself at the last moment, only failing to hold back a hitch of his breath. Yet, in an unexpected display of tact, Granger did not comment, but turned back to the books, indicating one pile after the other.

         “These,” she said and pointed at the first one, “are Elysian books, I would not be surprised if you knew most. These,” her hand came to rest on the second pile,“are books on Teuton.”

         She looked up then, brows furrowing and lips thinning, reminding Draco very much of his old instructor, Vindictus Viridian, who had a way of showing his disapproval and reproach in almost the same way. “Harry told me you spoke a few Teuton words the other day, but you have been with us for nearly two months now, Draco, and will stay a lot longer. Learning our tongue would help immensely in building bridges.”

         Draco abstained from commenting that he was in no way eager to built any bridges if they brought him closer to Granger and her Teuto kind, thank you very much. She would not have let him speak anyway, because she immediately went on, touching the last pile of books almost reverently, “and these are about magic. All in Teuton, I must add, but maybe they will be encouragement enough to help you study our language.”

         Bint. Draco took satisfaction from sneering at the back of her head, but hastily schooled his features into surprise when she turned back towards him, satisfied herself and looking like she was about to pat her own shoulder in congratulations.

         “You know I have studied magic before I came here,” he said, and then added with false sweetness, “well, that is indeed a surprise, considering you did not even seem to know my name when you sentenced me to death.”

         Granger took a deep breath before hissing through her teeth in what seemed to be exasperation, her eyes rolling up as if in prayer as she crossed her arms over her chest, tapping one foot. Not bothering to hide her irritation, she ground out, “we have found that the corruption of the Emperor runs deep in families such as yours.”

         Draco laughed. It was a sound that surprised him himself—how bitter and hollow it sounded—but he felt it was quite fitting.

         “Tell me, Granger, how is the air up there? Aren't you getting dizzy? Maybe you should come off your high horse,” he mocked with a sneer that made Granger's eyes narrow. She opened her mouth to speak, but Draco went on, talking over her and raising his voice, “or are you scared of catching our corruption? Forgive me, m'Lady, I would remove myself from your presence, but alas, I have nowhere to go without fearing for my life. Tell me, do you think your good influence will heal me of the poison running through my veins? I do think I can already feel it—“

         “Enough,” she cried, her face blotchy and unattractive with her flush. She brought one hand down on the table, making it shudder and one of the books slip off the top of its pile, toppling to the ground with a dull thud. Draco clucked his tongue, feeling excitement bubbling in his chest. It was like taking the lid off a cauldron that has been standing above its fire for too long, and now the smoke collected could finally find its way out, while inside the cauldron the potion was boiling merrily. He had been harbouring these thoughts for too long it seemed, and now Granger and her presumptuous behaviour had cracked open a seal he had tried to keep closed for the longest time.

         Now, he took gratification from releasing all those words he'd bitten back, all those accusations he had swallowed down to let them fester like an open wound in his mind.

         “We have encountered enough families like yours to know better than show mercy. The Notts, the Goyles, the Crabbes, all of them had raised their children after their own wretched beliefs in that murderer. We spared their children first, locked them away and tried to convince them to see the truth, see that their Emperor does not care one bit about their lives. But they would not see reason, would not stop trying to kill whoever dared entering their cells. They tried convincing the other prisoners of their cause, would not stop threatening the guards. One of them even got hurt when Crabbe grabbed him and smashed his head into the wall as he was bringing him food.”

         She took a deep breath, visibly forcing herself to calm down, for her voice had risen with seemingly every word during her tirade. When she had composed herself enough, Granger continued, her voice steadier, but not yet having lost all of the sharpness her anger had infused it with, “we gave them a choice, then. Either, we would clap them in chains and gag them for the rest of their miserable lives in the dungeons, or they would be executed. They chose the latter and died still praising their master with their last breath. From then on, we forewent any attempts at reasoning, and instead let all children of Emperor-loyal families such as yours choose. In the end, all of them chose death, if not by word, then by action.”

         “By action?” Draco sneered. “What possible action could sentence them to death when they were gagged and bound? Tell me, Granger, did you know _their_ given names? Or were they only the offspring of corrupted men in your eyes, sprouted from poisoned seed even in the womb?”

         “You did not hear them, you did not know them!”

         “Yes I did!” Draco shouted, and took a step towards her. His body was strung taut, every hair standing on end with the anger and hatred coursing through his veins, as if it had found a way outside and was now crackling over his skin, rippling along his spine in like small charges of lightning. By now, his fists throbbed with pain for he was clenching them so hard his fingertips and nails dug into his palms, and his fingers were getting numb. “They were my friends! I knew them all by name; _Theodore_ Nott, _Gregory_ Goyle, _Vincent_ Crabbe! They were the ones I spent my time with in summer, with them I played in my mother's rose gardens!”

         “Then how do you still wonder why we sentenced you to death?” Granger asked with an upturned nose, her words full of disgust. “All those around you were followers of the Emperor, all you've ever known is loyalty to him. Your aunt is Bellatrix Lestrange, a mad sectary who tortures for twisted enjoyment and pleasure. How could we ever expect you to be any different from your parents and friends?”

         “So why did you, then?” Draco shot back, baring his teeth, taking another step forwards. He had never been a violent boy, though prone to temper tantrums that involved screaming and throwing himself on the ground until he got what he wanted—but never had he raised his hand to harm someone.

         Yet, here he was, anger coursing through his veins like the blackest, hottest of poison, churned by Granger's words, and it needed an outlet, needed to escape. Hate and fury like tendrils spreading forth, pulling his arm back and up, his vision clouded with red, and he wanted to make her hurt, wanted to—

         He was stopped short by the rainbow gleam of the Magick Jewel in the middle of her palm, hovering right in front of his eyes, and Draco froze immediately, Hand hanging uselessly at the height of his head next to him, still raised. When his gaze flicked to Granger's face, she was staring back at him, determined, calm. Dangerous.

         “Give me a reason, Draco,” she hissed, and the glow of the Jewel pulsed, as if it was assenting the threat. Draco swallowed, and ever so slowly, dropped his arm back to hang at his side, his fist uncurling, joints popping and protesting. He straightened and took a step back, and the whole time Granger did not move, did not withdraw her hand. Only when he had put some distance between the two of them—nearly having retreated to the other side of the room, in fact—she finally let her hand drop back to her side.

         For a moment, they stood in silence, appraising each other properly for what felt like the first time until Draco broke the silence with a nod at Granger's right hand, “that is a fine Gauntlet.”

         Granger raised her hand once more, but this time abstained from aiming the Jewel at Draco, instead pulled her sleeve back to reveal the intricate silver ornaments of the Sorcerer's Gauntlet twisting around her forearm. She turned her hand and arm, so Draco could see the whole of the weapon, the Jewel in the centre of her palm, looking like an oval of glass filled with swirling fog in the colours of the rainbow, now only glowing softly. It was held there by five delicate-looking silver chains of metal, three of them running between her fingers, the other two on each side of her palm, all connecting at the back of her hand to twist out over her forearm up to her elbow in pretty swirling patterns.

         Granger smiled softly, maybe a bit smug. “It was forged by Ollivander especially for me. I picked the Jewel myself.”

         Draco nodded absent-mindedly, observing the fog inside the glass orb swirling and twisting with a life of its own, its light pulsing with the rhythm of a foreign heartbeat. He'd had a Gauntlet at home, too, but it had been his mother's before, and had never felt quite right when he'd slipped it on. The Jewel had been welcoming, but as he had not picked it himself like Granger had, the connection was not as strong as it could have been.

         “You did not wear it when you came in,” he said then, with a quick glance at her face, and the corners of her lips twitched, even though her face remained neutral.

         “I keep it always close,” she said and tugged her sleeve back in place, until it covered the Jewel in the centre of her hand. Her brown eyes met Draco's, and they were stern as she continued, “you never know when you might need it.”

         Draco folded his own hands in front of him, the thumb of his left hand tracing circles over the palm of his right one, and he inclined his head slightly.

         “Indeed,” he said, and watched as she nodded and then left, the door clicking shut behind her.

* * *

 “You told Granger that I studied magic back home,” Draco accused the next day, when Blaise came to bring breakfast. For barely a second, the servant looked as if he'd been caught, his gaze flicking to the side as if he could not meet Draco's eyes, but then he smirked, crossing the remaining distance towards the table and starting to prepare Draco's meal.

         “It seems I did,” he finally said as he pulled Draco's chair back, indicating for him to sit down. Draco did not move but remained where he was, standing next to the bed, arms crossed over his chest in what could be seen as childish defiance—yet he did not care, only glared with disapproval at his friend.

         “Why,” he hissed finally, and Blaise rolled his eyes in irritation, taking a deep breath before he let go of the chair to walk over towards Draco.

         “My friend, for being such a shrewd man, you are sometimes incredibly daft.” Blaise had the audacity to shake his head in a way that let Draco know he was hopeless.

         Draco narrowed his eyes and raised his chin, looking down his nose at the servant as he said, “and how could you ever consider this a good idea, _my friend_?”

         “Sit down, will you,” Blaise said, slightly exasperated—yet fondly—as he ushered Draco towards the table with his hands on the other's shoulders, pushing gently. “And listen. No, Draco—“ here he raised one eyebrow in warning, since Draco had opened his mouth as if to speak, “—listen first, talk later.”

         With that, Blaise walked around the table and sat down in the chair across from Draco, propping his elbows up on the table, his hands folded in front of him, chin resting on his laced fingers as he waited for Draco to begin eating breakfast. Draco did so after another long moment of tense silence, pushing the eggs on his plate around with a pinched face. It was not that Molly Weasley's cooking had worsened in any way, but the memory of the day before was still vivid in his mind, and looking back now, he realised how foolish his outburst had been.

         Finally, after Draco had choked down a few bites, Blaise began, “Granger is a scholar first and a leader of this war second. I did not mean to tell on you, I meant to give the both of you something to bond over, since I know you'd never come forth with this information about yourself without my interference. Think Draco, challenge Granger's mind, have discussions with her, and she will soon more than tolerate your presence.”

         Draco put his fork down and picked up the cloth serviette he had draped over his lap, dabbing at the corners of his mouth before he rinsed the lingering taste of breakfast from his mouth by taking a sip of spicy tea. “Well, this will be hard to achieve, considering the argument I had with Granger yesterday. It mostly involved Granger and her gigantic, prejudiced ego, but I will not gainsay that I was a very vocal part of it.”

         Reaching for the bowl with fruits, he plucked a grape from its bunch, popping it in his mouth. It exploded with juicy sweetness as he bit down, the bitter skin a stark contrast to the fruit's sugary pulp coating his tongue. Draco frowned as he chewed, seemingly considering his next words, “maybe I should add that by the end of it all, she threatened to hex me. Suffice to say we did not part on the best of terms.”

         Blaise stared at him for a moment, eyes wide and round with his surprise, and he released a startled breath that sounded close to a snort, then another, before he began chuckling. By the end of it, he had worked himself into full laughing, his head thrown back, throat bobbing with every hasty gulp of air between the bouts of laughter. Draco glared and tore another grape from the bunch, chewing with grinding teeth.

         Eventually Blaise had calmed down enough to wipe the tears from his eyes, still chuckling softly as he said, “I should have seen it coming. It was inevitable that you and Granger would end up having a fight. You are too alike not to.”

         “I beg to differ,” Draco protested loudly. “There is nothing I and that bint have in common.”

         “No? So you both are not wont to feel superior? You both are not prone to bursts of anger when someone disagrees? You both do not feel you're almost always right? You both are not exceptionally well-read and have an exquisite intellect? My dear Princeling, it might not seems so on the first glance, but believe me when I say the both of you have more in common than you might think.”

         With that, Blaise rose from his seat, his bow mocking in the speechless Draco's eyes.

         “Now, you better start reading,” he went on, already walking towards the door to be on his way to another errand. “I would not put it past Granger to come back to test you on your Teuton.”

         Draco could hear his amused chuckle even through the thick wood of the door, and with a sigh, he buried his face in his hands, not for the first time wishing he would simply be left in peace.

* * *

 Three days later found Draco poring over the books on Teuton. It was frustrating, to say the least, and it was beyond him how even the Teuto could speak a language such as this one. Too many exceptions and clauses, and no melody to speak of. When he tried voicing the words aloud, his tongue and lips had difficulties forming the almost guttural foreign sounds, and more often than not he found himself cussing in anger over another failed attempt. He was close to throwing the books across the room or setting them on fire, or other equally uncivilized things—it seemed his hosts' crude manners were rubbing off on him after two months in their vicinity.

         “ _Merde_ ,” he cursed silently and snapped the book in his lap closed with slightly more force than necessary, dragging his hands through his hair before he massaged his temples against the headache announcing itself behind his eyeballs. What was he trying to achieve here, anyway. Why was he torturing himself with this infuriating language?

         Why was he trying to assimilate? He was no Teuto and he would never be—and thank the Gods for small mercies. Blaise had told him he had to build bridges between himself and the Golden Three, but there had to be a line. After all, Granger spoke Elysian fairly well, and he believed neither Potter, nor Weasley were able to partake in a stimulating conversation that did not have weapons and fighting as their topic to begin with.

         Slipping off the bed, Draco stretched and rubbed his neck, frowning in disapproval over the kinks in his spine from sitting too long in the same position. Without his consent, his feet carried him towards the window, where he could see the three dragons raising towards the sky to begin their nightly ritual. Nearly every night since his arrival here in Grimmauld, Draco had watched them weave around one another, snapping at tails and the tips of wings in friendly banter as they moved full of grace through the air despite their huge forms. And every night, Draco found himself looking wistfully at the display, wishing he had wings himself and could fly with them, let the winds carry him towards the endless expanse above.

         But even though there were no chains around his ankles, he could not do so. The ground and the walls around him held Draco down, nearly suffocating him with their weight looming above and beside him. Sometimes he would wake sweat-soaked and breathless from a dream he could barely remember but for the crushing weight of stone burying him while chains held him in place, the skin around his wrists and ankles rubbed raw. The thought alone made Draco shudder, and he wrapped his arms tightly around himself, looking on as Potter's giant beast engaged in a dance with Weasley's, the two of them diving in a corkscrew pattern before they rose again, circling each other, Granger's dragon hovering between them, its head thrown back as it released a lilting mewl which was answered by the screeching yowl of Potter's wyvern and Weasley's steed's more melodic roar. Together, the three dragon's voices wove into a song that plucked Draco's heartstrings, made him shudder, warmth spread in his stomach as he listened to a melody of freedom. He must have heard it often by now, because it sounded strangely familiar, and as if he was in trance, he felt himself moving closer to the window, the cold stone of the sill digging into his hip bones as he leaned in, hands propped up on the sill. He felt the evening's warm wind caressing his cheeks, blowing his hair into his face, but he did not mind as he followed the beasts' movements with his gaze, small figures dancing before the sky, painted red by the setting sun.

         Draco felt weightless. He felt as if, would he only dare, he could lean completely out of the window and spread his arms and let the winds carry him away, to the dragons so he could join their dance, and they would welcome him in their midst, greet him like an old friend, a long lost brother which had been missing in their circle until now. If only it were true.

         So entranced was Draco by the dragons' play that he did not notice he was leaning dangerously far out of the window.

         Until he was pulled back abruptly, losing his footing and stumbling back, his back connecting with someone else. Immediately, two arms came up and wrapped around Draco, pressing him against a hard chest. He struggled, but only weakly, against the person's hold, even more so when he heard Potter's voice talking right by his ear, a hot puff of breath caressing his cheek, lips moving against his earlobe as Potter seemingly tried to sooth him.

         Draco went rigid in Potter's arms, turning his head towards Potter, which brought their faces dangerously close together, their breath mingling. His neck protested, but Draco was captured by Potter's bespectacled emerald eyes, wide with worry as he stared at Draco. He could feel Potter's chest rising and falling at his back, could feel his breath on his face, his arms shaking where they still held Draco.

         Did Potter think Draco had been about to throw himself out of the window to end his plight?

         The thought amused Draco so much, he was not able to hold back the giggle starting to bubble in his chest, making its way up his throat to turn into loud, hysteric laughter that made his body shake with it. Potter looked gobsmacked, but he did not let go of Draco, only seemed to tighten his hold on him further even though it was barely possible, and Draco was gasping, gulping down lungfuls of air.

         “You,” he choked out between bursts of laughter, “you thought I wanted to kill myself!”

         Potter only looked more worried and let go of Draco before gripping his shoulders to shake him, hard. The laughter lodged in Draco's throat, made him cough until he felt like there was not enough air in the room. His knees were shaking, and by now, the only thing still holding him up was Potter, his hands like a vice around Draco's upper arms. He sagged against Potter's chest, barely registering the tunic's buckles digging into his cheeks as he greedily gulped down air. Potter seemed startled, went rigid, but then, slowly and carefully, as if he did not want to spook Draco, his arms wound around Draco's middle, pulling him closer, hands trailing up and down Draco's back in a soothing rhythm. His speech was more cooing than talk, and Draco despised it, but there was still not enough air in his lungs or strength in his limbs to protest or pull away. So he listened to Potter speaking to him like to a scared infant, Teuto's words for _calm_ and _all right_ woven into the still unintelligible stream of gibberish.

         Finally, Draco had calmed down, and he tried to disentangle himself from Potter's hold, but the barbarian that he was, Potter caught Draco's wrist, not letting go even when Draco scowled and huffed, tugging to free his wrist from the circle of Potter's fingers.

         “No,” Potter said, firmly, the simple syllable coming clumsily from his lips. Draco scowled and only tugged harder, twisting his wrist in its hold. Potter's eyes narrowed behind smudged lenses, and he wrenched, once, hard, at Draco's arm so that Draco lost his balance, stumbling once more forward into Potter's chest, the air escaping his lungs in a surprised huff on impact. Potter didn't so much as move.

         “Let go!” Draco demanded, curling his free hand into a fist to pound it against Potter's chest, trying to gain enough leverage to push the other away. But Potter did not even flinch, and it was infuriatingly easy for him to grasp Draco's other wrist as well, pulling both of his arms above his head in one swift and fluid motion. Before Draco could even comprehend what was happening, Potter hand both of his arms bent back behind his head, leaving Draco in a frustratingly vulnerable position; Potter's arms enveloping him, calloused fingers tightly wrapped around delicate wrists, Draco's back arched to take the strain off his shoulders, pushing his hips forward and towards Potter, who was leaning in, bringing their bodies dangerously close together. The hiss that escaped Draco's mouth was equal parts surprise and pain, and it quickly turned into a snarl when he saw the irritation on Potter's face.

         “Let go!” he demanded, again, struggling harder, in his anger entirely unaware of how close they really were and how struggling would result in Draco rubbing the length of his body against Potter's. Or maybe he simply didn't care. He'd had enough of Potter and his alarming lack of manners.

         Draco bucked and twisted like a wild horse beneath a rider, grunting and huffing and hissing, snarling insults that Potter could not understand, yet he did not care in the least, as he was determined to get free.

         Potter's cheeks were flushing and his eyes had darkened. His mouth was set in a tight line, his eyebrows pulling down into a frown of reproach. Still Draco did not cease his struggling, but kept on with it, heat rising to his cheeks with the exertion. Potter said something, his voice hard and unforgiving—an order that Draco would not oblige to, and as if to spite him, he only twisted harder in Potter's hold, baring his teeth.

         Until, finally, Potter yanked Draco's arms downward, making him scream in pain, his knees buckling to accommodate to the new angle of his arms, trying to take the strain off his shoulders and the muscles in his arms. But Potter did not stop even as Draco sank to the ground—instead, he followed him down, crouching over him, pulling and pulling on Draco's arms until he was bending backwards at his hips, his knees folded beneath him. It was a painful, exhausting position, and soon Draco's breath came in quick, harsh gasps. His whole body was trembling, for it was strung taut now like the string of a bow before it is released, and immediately his muscles had started burning.

         Potter's thighs were bracketing Draco's, and he had leaned in, his back arched like that of an angry cat's, only one hand holding up his weight as the other still clutched Draco's wrists tightly, their faces only inches apart.

         “Stop,” Potter growled, a low, almost feral sound that bared his teeth, and combined with his dark eyes and untameable hair, he looked like a beast; a predator holding down its prey, a wolf having caught a hare. Draco shuddered, dread making its way down his spine like cold fingers trailing every vertebrae with cruel promise. He released a choked gasp, trying to twist to ease the strain on his muscles, but Potter would not let him, only pulled his arms down further until Draco cried out in pain, his shoulders feeling like they were about to spring from their sockets. “Stop, Draco!”

         The words were an angry hiss, Potter's breath brushing hotly over Draco's mouth. He could smell Potter, the leather of his clothes, stale sweat, cedar wood, the streets' dust, smoke, the underlying spicy scent that must be Potter himself—with every breath Draco took, his nose was filled with it all.

         “Let go,” he demanded, weakly and breathless, but Potter did not budge, and Draco was utterly at his mercy—as he had been since the day the Teutos came to his home and took him with them as another spoil of war. Bound, gagged, held like a pet, a song bird in its gilded cage, draped in fine clothes like the puppet of girl, pushed around and expected to bow to his captors whims. Oh, this prince had fallen deeply, and where once he had held his head high, he ducked it now, slouched and pulled his shoulders up to hide his face, the head that once carried a crown, bare now. Slave, pawn in a game of politics, spoils of war. Vulnerable and defenceless.

         There was so much anger inside him, and he felt it setting his bones alight. It was singing inside him, vibrating through every fibre of his being, cackling like lightning in the air before a summer's thunderstorm. He could feel it chasing up his spine to his fingertips, humming a sweet melody of revenge and victory, gathering at the back of his throat, waiting for him to open his mouth and spit out words like a dragon breathed flames.

         He could feel it, the magic, these thin strands of wonder woven into the fabric of the world, could feel them vibrating around him, like the strings of a lyre being plucked, and all he had to do was _tug—_

         It was not so much a word he released into the tense silence between himself and Potter, than it was a nonsensical—it seemed—array of sounds and syllables, bursting from him like a dragon's roar, an unearthly and inhuman sound, woven through with magic which crested like a wave, rising to crash over them, tearing on Potter's hold and ultimately pulling him away and off Draco, dragging him on through the room like the pull of the tide until he collided, hard, with the door.

         Draco had no idea what had happened and did not care for that matter. He could not even be bothered to listen to the protests his muscles were making when he climbed to his feet and staggered towards Potter, who was sprawled on the floor in front of the door, his eyes wide and confused, even _frightened—_ Draco noted with satisfaction—as he gulped down air. In an instant, Draco was at his side, but instead of offering comfort or an explanation, Draco straddled his waist in a twisted mirror image of their former position, gripping Potter's hair harshly to hold his face in place.

         “Damned barbarian!” he spat and curled his free hand into a fist. The first blow caught Potter's cheek, and despite Draco's hold on his hair, his head snapped to the side. “ _How dare you_!”

         Potter must still have been dazed when Draco struck him for the first time, because as he raised his fist again to hit him once more, Potter caught it, his hand, fingers spread, wrapping around Draco's fist and squeezing until Draco could feel the bones grinding against one another, and he cried out in pain, letting go of Potter's hair to scratch at his wrist instead. He was willing to use his nails to claw at Potter's skin until he could see the white of his bones, but it never came to that, because in one swift motion—his other hand clenching Draco's shoulder with bruising force—Potter reversed their position yet again, rolling until Draco was beneath him once more.

         The sound Draco made was that of a cornered animal, full of frustration and helpless rage as Potter used his weight and strength to pin him to the ground, hands above his head. Draco might as well have tried to push a boulder off himself for all the good struggling did him. Once more, Potter's face was only inches above his own as he order Draco to cease struggling, but Draco bared his teeth, hissed and bucked his hips—

         Potter's choked gasp made him stop moving immediately. Draco went rigid, his eyes widening in shock. Above him, Potter was as motionless as him, his body taut with tension, only his chest heaving with the hurried breaths he took through parted lips. His eyes were wide with surprise, too, but where they had been ablaze with anger before, they were darkening now, pupils dilating to only leave a ring of emerald iris around them.

         And Draco saw the hunger in their depths. The lust, the want, obvious as Potter's gaze dropped to Draco's lips for the time of a heartbeat and a pink tongue licked over chapped lips quickly as if it was begging for a taste of another's mouth.

         Draco's heart beat loudly in his chest and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears as his own eyes followed the movement of Potter's tongue.

         He had not imagined it, then, Potter's arousal, hot and hard, pushing against his hip as he had bucked his hips to throw Potter off—

         Potter wanted him. He desired Draco despite their fight. Or maybe because of it, because Draco had dared to challenge him, had butted heads with him, because he did not belong to the mass of his followers who worshipped the ground he walked on and swooned as soon as he only glanced at them—

         Draco did lack the strength and training to take Potter on in a fight, the one they had just had only proved it to him, again. But Blaise had said Draco did not need a sword or magic to shatter the mighty War Chief of the Order to smithereens—'your hands breaking him before you piece him back together to your liking,' Blaise had said. All Draco needed was his body.

         A smile curled the corners of his lips as Draco pushed his hips up once more, and he delighted in the shudder this drew from Potter, the hitch of his breath. It was captivating, seeing how control deserted him, how his eyes slipped almost shut when Draco did it again, and again, rubbing his own, now hardening cock against Potter's. It was addicting.

         Draco sighed in pleasure, a sound not unlike the purr of a cat, when he felt Potter's fingers loosening around his wrists until Draco could slip them out of Potter's formerly so restraining hold. Potter groaned, his hips jerking in an aborted motion, and Draco chuckled, let his hands slide over the quivering thighs, fingers following the seam of rough linen trousers. He was getting drunk on power, felt it rising to his head, making him light-headed almost, the pleasure of the rutting mixing with his delight over reducing Potter to a trembling mess, wax in his hands.

         Potter's eyes were as glazed as those of a drunkard, but there was still the hunger inside them, making Draco shudder, and Potter dipped his head, brushed his lips against Draco's. Shyly at first, as if he was testing the waters, but when Draco parted his mouth further, his tongue flicking out to lick over Potter's, he seemed to snap.

         Potter had been holding back, that much was clear when he deepened the kiss immediately, sealing their mouths together roughly, his tongue pushing between Draco's lips for a taste, sliding over Draco's. Draco swallowed his groan, raised his hands to Potter's head and wove his fingers through the wild hair, thick, black strands clinging to his fingers. He could taste the wine, spicy and foreign, and Potter himself, indescribable. Lips and tongues slid against one another urgently, teeth grazed tender flesh and bit down until it stung before a tongue soothed the ache.

         Potter groaned and sighed, and Draco was revelling in it, sighed himself when he felt Potter's hands wrapping around his sides, heat of his palm scorching hot through thin silk. Draco started moving his hips once more, grinding up against Potter in a quickening rhythm, making him shudder and groan and moan with pleasure, Potter's hips pushing down every time Draco pushed up. It was exquisite, the combination of the friction and Potter's continuously decreasing mental state affecting Draco like a heady concoction of alcohol, and he arched his back, pulled and tugged on Potter's head and hips to bring him closer, Potter doing the same, his hands tightly wrapped around Draco's hips, pulling them up, hardening the thrusts. Pleasure was chasing up and down Draco's spine, making his toes curl. By now, they were not even kissing any more, their lips parted as they shared breath, each drinking up the other's groans greedily like it was the Gods' sweetest ambrosia. Potter's eyes were closed, his brows furrowed, sweat beading on his forehead, a flush staining his cheeks. His lips were red and slick with spit, and he mumbled a stream of Teuton that had no context, was more syllables than full words, clinging to one another and sometimes interrupted by groans and gasps. Heat pooled in Draco's abdomen, spreading from there through his whole body as Potter lost mind and thought above him, nothing more than a pleasure-crazed man, barely more than an animal. Delicious friction made him shudder and moan, his cock throbbing with the need for sweet release as Potter pushed their foreheads together.

         Draco felt like he was climbing a cliff, every thrust grinding their cocks together brought him closer to the precipice, and his hands roamed Potter's body restlessly, slipping over his back, feeling muscles move. He had seen them before, flexing beneath bronze skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat, and his mind conjured a most splendid image—Potter naked, squirming beneath Draco, muscles flexing as his back arched, chest heaving, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, lids heavy over eyes dark with lust.

         The precipice was right there, only a step away, so easy to reach—

         “Draco,” Potter said, and Draco fell. His back arched and with a shout he came, hot slickness coating his stomach and soiling the silken robes he was still wearing, his fingers flexed and his body shuddered, his eyes rolled up into his head, his toes curled. His spine was on fire, electricity licking its way through his body. He hung onto Potter, who rode him through the shocks of his climax, relentlessly thrusting faster and faster and harder and harder until his own orgasm clashed over him like a wave, making him choke down quick gasps that sounded like high-pitched, broken moans, his hips jerking without a proper rhythm, hands clenching even harder down on Draco's hips as he spilled himself in his trousers.

         Then, he collapsed on top of Draco as if boneless.

         The silence that followed was heavy and stifling, and their quick and loud breathing could not break it, neither could the nightly sounds of the city drifting in through the window. Draco was uncomfortably aware of the clammy, sticky slickness at his groin and Potter's weight on top of him. The room reeked of sex; fresh sweat and bitter semen, and he scrunched up his nose in distaste. He squirmed, and Potter, thankfully, understood and rolled off him to sprawl out next to Draco, his eyes closed and his face full of blissful exhaustion. Draco peered at Potter's profile through lowered lashes, took in his dreamy smile and relaxed face, and bemused and incredulous, he stared as Potter's breathing evened out and he fell asleep on the cold, hard floor.

         Draco huffed and shook his head in disbelief.

         “Barbarian,” he muttered and got up to clean himself up.

* * *

 Draco spent almost an hour inside the bathing chamber, scrubbing his skin red and raw with a cloth that he dipped into cold water. It was refreshing to wash the grime off his skin, the cloth taking it with it and only leaving the sweet smell of the scented oils he had used to prepare the water. His robes lay discarded in a corner of the room, and he did not dare look at them, too aware of the obvious stain his release had left behind. It would surely produce some gossip, so Draco decided to tell Blaise he should take care of that particular piece of clothing himself. The last thing he needed was the castle believing he was the War Chief's pleasure slave.

         The thought made Draco shudder, and he scrubbed even more harshly when he reached his stomach and the trail of hair leading down from there to his cock, now flaccid and unimpressive. And Draco wondered as he peered down at himself, how Potter looked naked, how big his—

         A blush heated his cheek and Draco looked away, took care of the mess quickly before the thought could spark renewed interest in regions he did not want to think of right now.

         When he was finished, he left the room wrapped in a towel, first making sure Potter was still asleep. He was, so Draco walked towards the wardrobe and opened it, cursing silently when the hinges creaked in protest, but Potter did not even stir. Draco shrugged and withdrew a nightgown that he hastily slipped into before walking towards the bed. He froze when Potter sighed and rolled onto his side, cushioning his head on his arm. Still, he did not wake.

         For a moment, Draco looked at Potter, his relaxed face, almost boyish in his sleep, so much younger, lacking the tension and grimness he had seen so often by now. And he realized that Potter was not older than him, barely a man himself, and already a leader of this war, a warrior on the battle field. How many lives, he wondered, had Potter already taken? How many men, and how many boys had he struck down with his sword? His mind showed him a Potter drenched in blood, face grim, sword held tightly in his raised hand, behind him the dragon, spitting fire at the enemy.

         Then his eyes found the sleeping boy on the ground again, and it did not fit. He could not picture the Potter sleeping on the ground with the ruthless War Chief he was.

         With a whispered oath and a shake of his head, Draco reached for one of the pillows and walked silently towards Potter, crouching down to shove it beneath his head. Potter sleepily mumbled something, his eyes cracking open for a moment before falling shut again.

         Draco stared at fluttering eyelids behind smudged spectacles, the thick, dark fan of eyelashes.

         “Oh, damn it all to the underworld,” he said. Carefully, he took Potter's glasses and slipped them from his face, folding them to lay them down on the table.

          _That's enough_ , he told himself and went to bed without another glance at the sleeping form on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you want to rage at me because of Hermione in this chapter, hear me out.  
> I had to think really hard and long about Hermione and Draco's fight in this one, and believed for a long time that Hermione must be OOC here, but somehow, it all fit (at least in my mind). So for everybody who's thinking "Sijglind, you're a total twat for writing her this way" right now, I ask you to look at [this little gem right here on tumblr](http://lupinatic.tumblr.com/post/73915570630/surprised-that-nobody-really-pays-attention-to), because this is the post I found which helped me get rid of all my doubts.  
> If you still think I'm a giant asshole after reading this, then. I don't know. I'm sorry? It's totally not meant as Hermione-bashing. Honest.


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